Calix Puritatis (The Messenger Series)
by H.R. Aidan
Summary: Noa Drury is the new Nancy Drew... with ghosts. When Noa is visited by apparent suicide Grant Fitzpatrick with a cryptic note for his business partner, she smells something fishy and sets out to investigate the truth behind his death and the significance of a legendary chalice called the Calix Puritatis. Can she find it before it falls into the wrong hands?
1. The Visitor

**AUTHOR'S NOTE: Thanks for stopping by! This is a new book in The Messenger series, which I hope you'll enjoy and leave a review or two. Check out my profile for more Messenger books. Thanks!**

* * *

 **1 – THE VISITOR**

* * *

I sit on my bedroom's window ledge, watching dusk settle over Cambridge. It's still light enough to see the drunken headstones through the holly hedge that separates our back yard from the cemetery beyond. Some people freak out at the thought of living next to a graveyard. My dad has always claimed it's the best place to live because we have quiet neighbours.

Well, they might be quiet to _him_.

A cool wind blows in, dispersing the steam that rises off my hot chocolate. My mongrel dog Spock lifts his muzzle from its resting place on my lap and growls. I hold my breath, waiting; not scared, but maybe a little apprehensive. I know what's coming, but it's the question of _who_ is coming that makes me nervous.

A figure appears out of the darkness – a man, tall, quite handsome, wearing a tailored tweed jacket and tie. He smiles at me, kind eyes crinkling at the sides, and strides towards me.

Spock growls again and I push him back into my bedroom. I catch the look of uncertainty on the man's face as he draws closer. Who can blame him really? I'm probably not what he was expecting. I'm a teenager, my hair more resembles a chimney sweep brush because of the summer humidity, I'm still wearing the shirt I spilt gravy on at dinner and I'm wearing Scooby Doo slippers that don't necessarily match my torn black jeans, but hey, I wasn't expecting to meet anyone this late, was I?

'Am I in the right place?' the man says, cocking his head and glancing around.

'If you've got a message you'd like passed on, then yes,' I reply, then to put him at ease, 'I'm Noa.'

'Right, you're the messenger then? You don't seem particularly phased by any of this.' He flashes me a smile and it tugs at something inside of me. What a waste.

'You get used to it,' I say with shrug.

The man gives me a mischievous sidelong look and strokes his chin. 'Hmm, and there I was hoping to be at least a little scary after all the trouble I've gone through to get here.'

I can't help but laugh. I like this one already. 'You don't seem that phased either. Most aren't terribly sure about it all.'

'I was well-prepped. Apparently, I've only got one shot so I've got to make it good.'

'Fire away.'

Pretending to look serious, the man clears his throat and rolls his shoulders like he's about to take part in an Olympic swimming event. His eyes twinkle though and I know he's having fun. 'Okay. The message is for a guy called Ross, Ross Dwyer. He is – or was – my partner. Tell him…' He pauses, his smile disappears and his expression becomes genuinely grim. 'Tell him I understand now that you can't always trust those closest to you. That… that…' He sighs and rakes a hand through his short brown hair, looks at me, concerned. 'I don't know if I should say this. Can I trust you? Honestly?'

'Of course.'

Still he hesitates. 'I don't know. I don't want to burden you with a truth that might put you in danger.'

I can't help myself. I'm even more intrigued than I was before. Spock pokes his head through the window and lifts a lip to growl and I automatically push him away. 'Danger's my middle name.' Actually it's Alessandra, named after my Peruvian aunt, but the mention of danger is like fresh blood to a shark.

'Okay,' he says. 'Tell him… sometimes those closest to you aren't to be trusted, I know that now. And that…' He looks at me, still uncertain, '…that sometimes seeing the cup half-full isn't always best.'

His message genuinely intrigues me. Most are fairly straight forward. This guy's is kind of cryptic. 'Is Ross going to understand that?' I ask.

He nods. 'He will, once he's thought about it a while. Besides, he enjoys puzzles. It's why he does what he does.'

'What does he do?'

An angry gust of wind blows through the yard and he looks away, anxious. 'I think I have to go. Will you give Ross the message? His address is 39 Limerose Road, Cambridge.'

The wind strengthens to a low howl. The sky darkens as black clouds blow over. I can barely make out my visitor.

'Wait!' I yell as he drifts away. 'You haven't told me your name.'

He gives me a last heart-melting smile. 'My name's Grant, Grant Fitzpatrick.'

Within seconds he's disappeared from sight. Spock puts his front paws on the ledge and barks at the empty yard, tail wagging, one ear cocked. I pat his head.

'He's gone, Spock. Well done, you saw him off. Brave dog.'

Spock looks proudly at me and licks his lips. I sit back against the window frame and take a sip of my tepid hot chocolate. The wind dies down to leave a peaceful twilight like nothing has happened.

I've sometimes doubted anything has happened myself, doubted my sanity even. I know Dad used to doubt me. He only doubts himself these days. Of the few memories I have of my mother my most vivid is of her sitting opposite me on the rug, her long legs crossed beneath a colourful gypsy skirt, and her telling me in that low gentle voice, 'You have a gift, _carina_ , you must use it well.'

At the time I didn't know what she was talking about, I was young enough only to latch onto the word 'gift'. The only gifts I knew about were the ones I received on my birthday and at Christmas. Now I know better, I've grown up a lot since then. I had to really. I think of all the other kids from school who are probably out partying tonight or on a group summer holiday in Crete where nothing matters more than getting a good tan. I know I will never be one of them and sometimes I feel what I have is more of a curse than a gift.

You see, being able to see spirits does not make me the most popular girl at school; on the contrary – although I have been told by one "well-wisher" the sniggering has more to do with my choice of wardrobe than anything. So I don't follow the trends? So I have my own sense of style? Dad once told me that people only poke fun at others because they're afraid of what's different. I try to believe that that's true, even if sometimes it's hard to imagine those people are ever afraid.

But you know what, now that I think about it, I wouldn't have it any other way. Not really. Max doesn't care about what I wear. Goodness knows his wardrobe is somewhat dated… and limited. Max is my best friend, has been so since he first came into my life about eight years ago when I was eight. I thought of him as being so adult back then, but now I'm sixteen and he can't be more than nineteen, I realise my mistake. Max doesn't age, you see. He will be eternally nineteen, and no, he's not a vampire. That was just the age Max Templeton was when he was killed in a foxhunting accident on his grandfather's Cambridgeshire estate back in 1899.

* * *

Copyright © H.R. Aidan, 2017


	2. Taking Cides

**2 – TAKING CIDES**

* * *

Dusk the next day, Max and I stroll down the terraced street together, me wheeling my bike, Spock sitting in the basket in front of the handlebars. To avoid unwelcome stares I have my earphones in my ears to make it appear I'm talking on a hands-free phone instead of to ghosts. I count down the house numbers from 213.

Limerose Road is pretty rank with overflowing bins and scrunched beer cans clogging the storm drains. Arguments from nearby houses spill out of open windows, babies howl, a pride of lads lurk on the corner, drinking and smoking.

One of them looks my way as I try to pass by unnoticed.

'Eh, babe, howabouta kiss?' He points to his bristly cheek, making his mates fall about laughing.

Ignoring him, I quicken my step. Both Spock and Max growl.

'Don't,' I say out of the corner of my mouth. 'You know how interfering gets you into trouble.'

We walk on and the lads, thankfully, lose interest.

'Bit of a dodgy neighbourhood to be walking around by yourself, don't you think?' Max says.

'You're meant to be my spirit guide, couldn't you have guided us down a safer route?' I reply.

Max looks dubious. I don't think either of us has ever considered him to be a 'guide' of any kind, more of a life companion or moral support when I deliver messages (very rarely are they easy). A bit – shall we say _old-fashioned_ – Max is often dumbfounded by today's technology and I end up being the one to guide him through our mortal world than the other way round.

'And this person we're delivering the message to – what are they like?' he asks.

'His name's Ross. And he can't be that bad. Not if he was Grant Fitzpatrick's partner.'

'You sound rather taken with this spirit.'

I detect a note of forced indifference in his tone and look at him curiously to see if he really is jealous. 'He was nice,' I reply. 'I don't know about "taken" though. I mean, he's a spirit.'

'What's wrong with spirits?' There's a definite tinge of defensiveness in Max's voice.

'Come on, you know what. Just the small matter of being dead and being alive.'

Max looks offended. 'That shouldn't matter. A person's soul never dies, and don't they call people in love soulmates?'

'Am I seriously in trouble for not falling in love with a ghost, Max? An old one at that, he was at least thirty.'

'I don't mean him specifically. I just…'

I glance his way. Talking about our relationship makes me edgy because sometimes I'm not sure where the boundaries are. Max is a spirit, sure, but he's also a boy – an odd one, perhaps, like he's time-travelled forward, but a boy nonetheless. Max returns my look and frowns irritably.

'Never mind. Who is this Ross person we're delivering Fitzpatrick's message to?'

'His partner, so even more reason for me not to fancy him.'

I refrain from telling Max about Grant's concerns over my safety. Max is jittery enough as it is.

We reach number 39. The façade is clean, if a little weather-worn, but the brass knocker and house number have been polished. I step forward and knock. We wait. No answer.

'Maybe he's out,' suggests Max.

I step back and look up at the double storey house. 'Maybe, but the windows are open and the lights are on.' I knock again then open the letter box. 'Mr Dwyer?' I yell through. 'Anyone home? Hello?'

There's still no answer. The only sound is of the jeers and laughs from the lads on the corner. I look around to see them swaggering down the street. One lad crunches his beer can flat and flings it at a cat grooming itself on a fence. The beer can misses, hits the wall of the house behind instead. The cat flees.

'Come on, let's go, Noa,' Max says. 'We can come back another time, preferably in daylight.'

'Eh, there you are, missus! What about that kiss you promised me?'

The lads saunter our way. Max clenches his fists, not that it would be any use. I knock harder on Ross Dwyer's door.

'No one home?' the lad says. 'Come back to my place, I'm sure we can find ways to amuse ourselves.'

He stops at the bottom of Ross's front path and grins at me. I can see a gold tooth reflecting the light of the overhead streetlamp. My heart thumps in my chest, but I square my shoulders and give him an insolent look.

'Keep dreaming, creep.'

He steps onto the path, his heavy boot crunching on loose stone. I look at Spock still in my bicycle basket, but know better than to set him on the lads. Judging by how they treated that cat, I know who would win that battle.

The lad takes another step and I consider my escape options. Should I make a run – or a cycle – for it? Suddenly the door opens and man appears in the doorway.

'Get on with you, Robert Brady!' he yells. 'Or I'll be having words with your father!'

The lad glowers at him then, shrugging his jacket collar up by his ears, he strolls off with his mates. One flicks a cigarette our way and it bounces off the wall in a shower of mini-embers.

'Thank you,' I say in relief. 'I thought I was going to have to make a runner.'

'What are you doing out by yourself after dark?'

I look up at the sky. Technically, it's still dusk and it _had_ been light when I started out. I just hadn't realised Limerose Road would be quite so long.

'Are you Ross Dwyer?' I ask.

'I am. Can I help you?'

I take a deep breath. This is where things usually start to get tricky. 'I've a message for you. Could we step inside?'

Ross glances at my bike and Spock in the basket. 'You'll have to bring your bike inside too if you don't want it stolen.'

'I'm sure it'll be fine. Spock will guard it.'

Ross nods his head towards the departing lads. 'Trust me, you want to bring everything inside. Don't worry about your dog, he's welcome inside.'

I exchange discreet looks with Max and he shrugs passively. I know what he's thinking – that, despite the neighbourhood, he thinks Ross can be trusted.

* * *

Ross holds the door wide and I bump my bike over the threshold.

'Just lean it up against the stairs there,' he instructs.

The house is worn and faded, but clean, just like the façade. Where the carpet is threadbare, a rug has been laid; where damp stains the walls, a picture has been hung. Even Ross's clothes of jeans and t-shirt and his receding brown hair speak of economy. He's hardly what I was expecting considering Grant Fitzpatrick's smart tweed jacket and tie.

'Do you want a drink?' Ross offers as he leads the way through the house to the kitchen. 'I'm guessing you're too young to join me for a glass of wine, but I have some pineapple juice.'

The back door is open and in a small courtyard is a mosaic garden table on which sits a bottle of wine and half-empty wine glass. It reminds me of Grant's puzzling message about the glass being half-full.

'Juice is good, thanks.'

Ross takes a carton of pineapple juice from the fridge and pours it into a glass taken from the drying rack. Without prompting he fills a plastic bowl with water and puts it down just outside the back door for Spock. He laps messily onto the concrete step.

'Come sit outside,' says Ross. 'The weather's too good not to.'

'Thanks.'

We pull up chairs around the mosaic table and Ross taps his wine glass against my juice.

'Cheers,' he says without enthusiasm. He gulps down half of it then looks at me with raised eyebrows. 'So, what can I do for you… er, what did you say your name was?'

'I didn't. My name's Noa, without the H. Noa Drury.'

'A pleasure to meet you, Noa without the H.' He sits back in her chair and smiles easily. 'What's this message you've got for me? I must admit to being intrigued. You're not your average courier.'

Understatement.

'Yeah, tell me about it.' I exchange ominous looks with Max.

He shrugs. 'He sounds stable. Go ahead.'

'I – er – deliver messages of a special kind. Um… you knew Grant Fitzpatrick, didn't you? You were partners?'

Ross stills and his expression becomes serious. 'That's right. Business partner.'

I'm a little taken aback. I thought they were romantically involved. 'I'm sorry about his passing.'

Ross regains some of his composure and takes another gulp of his wine. 'Thanks. You're not the only one.'

So far, so good. He looks a little blindsided at the mention of Grant's name but he's not in floods of tears, so that's a start.

'Well, I'm what you might call a spiritual messenger–'

'Oh, no. If you're going to try selling me a load of Bible–'

'No, not at all,' I'm quick to reassure him. 'It's got nothing to do with religion. Hell, I don't even go to church.' My response is perhaps more dismissive of religion than I actually am, but I need him on my side if I'm to continue.

Ross relaxes, but a frown settles on his forehead. 'So, what exactly does a spiritual messenger do then?'

'I deliver messages. Quite simple really. It's just the believing bit that most people struggle with.' I pause to see how he's taking it. He appears sceptical and I don't know if it's better or worse than if he was wailing with grief and fear. Generally speaking, the grief-stricken take heed of the message after they come to their senses. The sceptical usually remain sceptical.

'You see, I get visits from people who have passed away. And usually they want me to tell a loved one something they didn't have time to say themselves before they died.'

Ross looks at me from beneath heavy lids. 'So, you're able to talk to dead people?'

He appears indifferent, but as he sets her wine glass on the table and pours more into it, I notice his hand is shaking, making the bottle rattle against the glass.

'Kinda,' I reply. 'But not like Hollywood would have you think. I'm no Haley Joel Osmond.'

'And I'm certainly not Bruce Willis,' adds Max haughtily. 'I have a lot more hair for starters.'

'Last night I was visited by Grant.'

Ross's eyes widen and sparkle with tears, which he hurriedly blinks back. I can see he's trying hard to appear dispassionate. Even so, there's a tremor in his voice when he speaks.

'Grant? Is he – is he okay?'

'Yes, he's fine… He was actually rather charming.'

A ghost of a smile lifts Ross's mouth. 'That sounds like Grant.' He brushes his eyes with the back of his hand and takes a deep breath. 'Sorry, it's the shock. He-he had a message for me, y-you say?'

This is going better than I could have hoped. I glance across at Max and he gives me a thumbs-up.

'Yes.' I recall in finer detail Grant's visit. 'He wanted to say, firstly, that he now knows that you can't always trust those that are closest to you.'

Ross frowns. 'What?'

'And also that the glass half-full isn't always best.'

Ross's frown deepens.

'Cup, not glass,' Max corrects me.

'Cup!' I exclaim. 'Cup, not glass. The _cup_ half-full isn't always best.'

Ross's frown disappears and he gasps.

'Does that make sense to you?' I ask.

Ross puts his wine glass down with a clatter and leans forward. 'He said "cup"? Definitely "cup" and not "glass"?'

I think back for a moment to be sure. 'Yes, definitely cup.'

Ross leans back in her chair and exhales. ' _The cup half-full isn't always best_ ,' he murmurs to himself. Another frown settles on his brow.

The anticipation is killing me. 'Do you understand what he means by that? He did say you might need a while, but that you like puzzles, so…'

Ross almost laughs. 'I think I know what he's referring to. I can't think what it means exactly though. Goodness, I knew he was keeping something from me, I just knew it! But why didn't he say something before…' He trails off and reaches for his wine again. His hand is most definitely trembling.

'Before he died? I guess if his death was unexpected…' I think back to Grant. He looked healthy – or at least as healthy as any spirit looks. They all have a slightly desaturated look about them. And he was young, too young to die from natural causes.

'Did he not tell you how he died?' Ross says.

I shake my head. I'd just presumed he'd had an accident or something.

'He committed suicide,' he says.

I gasp and exchange looks with Max.

He looks confused. ' _What_?'

Ross nods. 'Yeah, most people have that reaction when they hear. Was there anything more that he said?'

I consider telling him why Grant's message was so cryptic, about the danger he mentioned, but decide against it. Something's not right and suddenly I'm not sure who I can trust.

'No, he didn't have much time,' I reply.

'Might he visit you again? Can you recall him?'

I gauge his mood. I wouldn't call it wary, but neither would I call it eager. I can't be sure if he really wants me to say yes or not.

'No. They only have one opportunity to transpirit back – well, unless they're a spirit guide, like um…' I'm about to mention Max sitting at the table with us but decide against it. I don't want to freak him out now after things have gone so smoothly. 'Your average spirit just gets the one chance to send a message back.'

It might be my imagination but Ross looks relieved. 'Well, thank you for delivering his – um – his message,' he says in a gruff voice. 'I just can't… how is it even possible?'

'I don't know,' I say with a shrug. 'I've just always had the ability to see and talk to spirits. I stopped asking how and why a long time ago.'

'But why you?' Ross's curiosity still isn't sated. 'Sorry, I don't mean to sound insulting, but if Grant had a message for me, why didn't he just come straight to me?'

'I don't know. I guess some people are just born with more psychic ability than others. My mother had it and her mother before that.'

'And can you predict the future? Can the spirits warn you about things to come?'

'Good grief, what sort of circus act does he think we are?' says Max. 'We're not fortune tellers.'

I think of my mother's car accident. Nobody had warned her about that. 'No. As far as I know, spirits – at least the ones that visit me – don't know what's going to happen any more than we do. They can only advise.'

'Can they make things happen? You know, change the course of history?'

I think of Max and how much trouble he gets in for interfering with my mortal world. 'I don't think they're supposed to mess with our world like that.'

Ross looks around nervously. 'Is he watching me, do you think?'

I look at Max and he shrugs.

'Search me. They don't encourage spying. It's rude.'

'I don't know,' I say to Ross. 'I doubt it.'

He looks marginally relieved and again tops up his wine glass. I finish the rest of my juice in one swallow. It's incredibly refreshing on such a muggy night.

'I should probably go now.'

Ross nods and gestures to me in some sort of apology. 'Yes, of course. Thank you for coming.'

We walk back through the house, Spock at our heels. I collect my bike on the way and bump it back over the front step. Spock leaps into the basket without prompting. He really is rather lazy for a dog.

'Have you told anyone else about this message?' Ross asks at the doorway.

'No. It was specifically for you.'

Ross wrings his hands in agitation. 'And you won't tell anyone?'

'No, the fewer people who think me nuts the better,' I reply.

'Okay, well, thank you,' he says with a weak smile. 'Take care.'

* * *

It's properly dark now as I push my bike down the street under the yellow pools of electric light. Spock pants in the basket, looking around like he's royalty. Beside me, Max walks with his hands clasped behind his back like he's deep in thought.

'Are you thinking what I'm thinking?' he asks.

'If it's that I can't be visited by suicides and Grant Fitzpatrick supposedly committed suicide then yes, I am. It doesn't make sense.' Apparently, suicides linger in a dimension known as Limbus, a place for lost souls, where they can't transpirit back to the mortal world.

'It does if Grant didn't commit suicide,' says Max.

His reply doesn't surprise me, but I'm still reluctant to consider it. 'What are you suggesting? That someone murdered him?'

Max shrugs. 'There are only so many ways someone can die. Suicide, accidental or murder. Accidental death is usually pretty easy to discern from suicide. Which leaves only murder that can be made to look like suicide.'

He's right. I knew it before he even had to explain it to me, but I don't want to think of someone murdering Grant Fitzpatrick. He was so charming. How could anyone not like him?

'Who would want to murder him though? He was so _nice_.' I say.

'Well, our list of suspects is somewhat limited right now, but if you'd been murdered and you got a chance to pass on a message back to the mortal world, wouldn't you give it to your murderer?'

'Ross?' I say in surprise.

'I know, he doesn't seem the murdering type. But it's possible, right?'

I frown into the darkness. I don't want to go leaping to conclusions. I've done that in the past, been too hasty with my assumptions and landed myself and others in hot water. 'I think we need to look into it more. See who Grant Fitzpatrick was for a start.'

'Oh boy, I'm sensing PI Drury is on a new case,' Max teases.

'You enjoy it just as much as I do,' I reply. 'I bet you didn't have this much excitement back in 1899.' I try to bump shoulders with him, forgetting for a moment what Max is, and end up staggering sideways with nothing but a cold arm.

Max laughs. 'I had plenty of excitement, thank you very much. It's what got me killed, after all. Damn horse should have seen that ditch on the other side of the hedge.'

'Serves you right for hunting those poor foxes.'

Max gives me a stern look. 'I'm not having this conversation with you again. Things were different back then.'

I grin at him. 'You're so easy to wind up.'

'And you are so easy at getting into trouble.'

At the mention of trouble, I look around for those lads from earlier. Max isn't wrong. But the lads have long gone.

'Let's get back and do some digging on Grant Fitzpatrick,' I say, stopping to mount my bike.

Max shudders. 'Not literally, I hope. I'm not good with dead bodies.'

* * *

Copyright © H.R. Aidan, 2017


	3. Spirit Interrupted

**3 – SPIRIT INTERRUPTED**

* * *

Back home, I park my bike under the stairs and knock on Dad's study door. It whines open beneath my touch. Dad isn't at his desk. Instead, he's lying on the old swaybacked couch usually reserved for heart-to-hearts with clients. Right now though, the only heart-to-heart he's having is with a gin tumbler perched on his midriff. Dad and I both have close relationships with spirits, you see, the only difference is mine is with the paranormal kind and Dad's is with the kind found at a liquor store.

'You been out, Noa?' he asks.

'Yeah. I had to deliver a message.' I wander into the room and try to ignore the lack of paperwork on Dad's desk or on the corkboard behind it.

'How'd it go?'

Usually, he gets agitated at my 'job', but tonight he doesn't seem phased. Probably the gin has helped.

'Okay. No tears this time.'

'Who was it for?' To his credit, he sounds genuinely interested.

'No one, just…' I hesitate. I still don't know enough about Grant Fitzpatrick to reveal all to Dad. '…Just a guy passing on a message to his business partner.'

'Now that's what I call a workaholic,' chuckles Dad. He lifts his tumbler off his abdomen a little to avoid spilling it. 'Not even death can keep some people from it.'

I look again at Dad's corkboard to see how his work ethic compares. There's a couple of photos of paintings that have been there for a couple of weeks at least. No developments, no leads. Dad's a private investigator, but his caseload has been very light lately. I don't really want to think about it.

'Yeah, well, I'm going to my room.'

Dad makes obliging noises then adds, 'You didn't want dinner, did you?'

I pause at the door and consider whether or not to make his life difficult. 'No, I'll make myself something. Don't worry.' It's not worth it.

* * *

I rattle some choc-pops into a cereal bowl and pour over some milk. It splashes onto a pile of envelopes on the table. The top one has a big stamp on it shouting FINAL DEMAND in angry red letters. I look at the addressee on the back; it's some finance company. The second envelope has PRIVATE & CONFIDENTIAL written on it, but I can see through the window to the reference line: PAYMENT OVERDUE.

There are three more letters in the pile, all of the same theme. They're all addressed to Dad, but they all remain sealed.

I tap the envelopes against my palm. Would it be such a bad idea to open them myself? Even if Dad's ignoring them, it doesn't mean that I have to. But what can I do about them? It's not like I have a proper paying job, and even if I did I doubt any holiday job salary would come close to what Dad owes.

From under the table comes a pitiful whine and I notice Spock sitting there looking up at me, head cocked. I chuck the letters back on the table and take my bowl of choc-pops to my bedroom. 'Come on, Spock.' Dad makes me so mad sometimes.

* * *

Max is waiting in my bedroom, lying on my bed with his arms crossed beneath his head. Spock growls.

'Rrr yourself,' says Max, looking unphased.

'Move over,' I tell him as I kick off my shoes. Strictly speaking, he doesn't need to – Max is a spirit, after all – but it freaks us both out if we accidentally 'merge'. I don't know what it feels like for him, but for me, I get very cold where we touch with a weird sense of pins and needles or static electricity. Often I wish Max was real so I could give him a hug or a slap, depending on my mood, but at other times, like now when it's a really muggy summer, he's quite useful to have around. It saves buying air-conditioning.

Max budges over and looks in disgust at my choc-pops. 'What on earth are you eating?'

'Dinner.' Nearly spilling it, I make myself comfortable on my bed.

'That doesn't look like dinner to me.'

'Max, must you act like a parent all the time?'

'Someone has to.' Max's tone is haughty and, although he gives Dad and me our privacy, he obviously knows something's up.

I glare at him, but having just seen Dad, I don't have the inclination to defend him. I put my bowl of cereal on my bedside table and pull my laptop onto my lap. I type GRANT FITZPATRICK into the search bar and wait. Max shifts closer to see the screen.

'No, no, no, no, no,' I mutter as thousands of results appear. I scroll through all the options. An Irish politician from the 30s, an Olympic kayaker, an eleven-year-old chess master, an archaeologist…

'Wait!' cries Max. 'Look there.'

I click on the link and an article appears. An inset photo of the same Grant Fitzpatrick who visited me last night confirms it's the right guy. In silence, we read the article.

" _Early this morning, thirty-three-year-old celebrity archaeologist Grant Fitzpatrick was found dead in his home. Police are treating his death as non-suspicious after a suicide note was found. Fitzpatrick, a popular archaeologist and historian, had been experiencing financial difficulties with his business, The Big Dig. Medical reports suggest the deceased ingested poison and died as a result of multi-organ failure…_ "

'Yuck, what a horrible way to die,' I say. 'If you were going to commit suicide you'd want the most painless way, wouldn't you?'

'But he didn't commit suicide, remember?' Max reminds me.

'I wonder who killed him,' I murmur, scrolling through the rest of the article for mention of friends and family. I don't want to convict and condemn Ross just yet.

'And why?' Max adds.

'It says his business was in financial difficulties…' I think of Dad's financial difficulties and push it to the back of my mind. I hope there isn't a hit out on him.

'Here,' I say, pointing to a section of the article. 'It says " _Fitzpatrick is most well- known to the public for providing his archaeological expertise on the television show Time Trap._ "'

Max looks dubious. 'You ever watch that?'

I shake my head. 'Never even heard of it. " _Despite attending digs on all five continents, Fitzpatrick focused his career on recovering the Calix Puritatis (transl. Cup of Purity), a medieval chalice that is said to cleanse the soul and absolve the sins of those who drink from it. Fitzpatrick died before he could achieve this lifelong ambition, and the whereabouts – and indeed the existence – of the Calix Puritatis remains a mystery._ "' I look up at Max. 'That's so sad.'

'Why?' Max looks unmoved.

'Because he never achieved his dream.'

'It's a bit ambitious, don't you think? This article questions whether this Calix Puritatis even exists.'

'Nothing wrong with being ambitious.'

'Becoming CEO of a company is ambitious, owning your own home is ambitious, even climbing Mount Everest is ambitious, but they're all achievable,' Max argues. 'Searching for some magical cup is just a fool's errand, like looking for El Dorado.'

I frown at him. It's not really like Max to be this negative. 'Are you jealous?'

He looks affronted. 'Jealous? Why should I be jealous? I'm not jealous.'

I give him a suspicious look. If he wasn't a spirit he would be blushing by now. 'Of course not. Anyway, back to the point of this search. If Grant didn't kill himself, then who did and why?'

Max shrugs. 'The obvious place to start would be his family.'

I type in a new search and wait. A profile of Grant and his family pops up. Having a public life has its perks, for us at least. It shows Grant's father, William Fitzpatrick, an RAF pilot, now deceased; and his mother, Phoebe Fitzpatrick, a celebrated academic historian at Cambridge University, also deceased.

'He has a twin sister called Jules. She's an artist and painting restorer.'

'A possible suspect?'

'She could be, I suppose. I can't imagine a girl overpowering someone like Grant though. He was fit–' I catch Max's glower. 'Although let's be serious, killing your twin is kinda extreme, don't you think?'

I don't really know. I've never even had a sibling. The closest I've ever had is Max and, well, he's not exactly brotherly material.

'Seems unlikely,' Max agrees. 'What about Ross? Might he have more motive to see off Prince Charming?'

I search for ROSS DWYER and the company name THE BIG DIG. I click on the first result and scan the page.

'Interesting. He's selling the firm already.'

'What?'

'Yeah. Look.' I move the laptop so Max can read easier. My arm prickles with chills as he moves closer beside me.

'Grant's been dead how long?'

'Almost six months according to that last article.'

'And his business partner is already shutting up shop,' muses Max. 'Could that be motive?'

'It could be if Ross wanted to sell and Grant didn't.'

To be honest, I have no idea about business. All I know is how to recognise when it's going badly. Even then though I've learnt people don't necessarily abandon ship. If it's all they've ever known, like Dad being a PI, I guess it would be difficult to move to another field. It could have been the same for Grant. 'They could have been heading for financial ruin and Grant wanted to try stick it out.'

Max's eyes widen as the idea appeals. 'Because he was obsessed with finding the Calix Puritatis.'

I shrug. That wasn't what I was going for and I don't particularly like to think of Grant as being obsessive to the point of ruining his and Ross's careers. 'Maybe.'

I shiver and rub my arms. I know Max is right up close to me, but it's excessively cold, and it shouldn't be when it's midsummer. I look at the window to see if there's a storm brewing that might bring a cold wind with it. My curtains barely move and the glimpse of sky I can see is clear.

I pull a blanket over my shoulders. 'If it was Ross, then it would explain why he looked so worried about the message.'

'Could that not just be because it came as a surprise?' says Max. 'I mean, it's not your average message, is it?'

'No, I know, but he wanted to make sure I didn't tell anybody else.' The more I think about it, the lower Ross falls in my ratings. One thing I've learned from Dad's business is that money is motive for a lot of things, murder included.

'What was the message again?' Max asks. 'Something about not trusting those closest to you, wasn't it?'

'Yeah. " _I now understand that you can't always trust those closest to you…_ "' I look at Max. 'Do you think that might have been a threat? He did say he was hoping to be at least a little scary now he was dead, but I just figured he was joking.'

'It could be. Or he could have been referring to someone else, a wife or girlfriend maybe.'

I shake my head. 'The article would have mentioned if he was married and I didn't notice a wedding band on his finger.'

Max gives me a heavy-lidded look. 'I'm not even going to ask what you were doing checking for that in the first place. Do another search for a girlfriend.'

The temperature has really dropped in here, and it's not my imagination either. I edge away from Max a bit. He gives me an odd look then sniffs at his armpit.

I smile. 'I'm cold, doofus.' I pull my blanket closer and do another quick search. 'No girlfriend that I can find,' I announce a few moments later. 'No children either. He's on a site here of most eligible bachelors on TV, compiled less than a year ago. But if it wasn't Ross, and you wanted to threaten your killer, why not have the message delivered directly to them? If it was someone else, why did he send me to Ross?'

'You're right,' says Max. 'I don't know. What was the second half of the message again? Maybe that will give us a clue.'

'" _Seeing the cup half-full isn't always best_." Ross said he thought he knew what Grant might be referring to, but didn't know what it meant. Well, a half-full cup implies optimism, doesn't it? When it's half-empty, it's a negative outlook. So he's saying being optimistic isn't always best. Maybe some business deal?' I suggest.

Max's curly dark hair hides the furrow of his puzzled brow. 'Maybe Ross wants to sell the company to someone who has offered an attractive deal,' he says slowly as the idea evolves in his mind, then quicker, 'Maybe Grant was – _is_ – sceptical. Maybe he doesn't trust the buyer.'

I click my fingers in triumph as another possible suspect clicks into place. 'In which case whoever it is who wants to buy or cheat The Big Dig might have motive to be rid of Grant as well.'

Max looks undecided. 'That's even supposing there _is_ a buyer. We're a long way off even proving they exist, never mind trying to prove they murdered Grant.'

I sigh and mull over it some more. Ross said he knew what Grant was referring to – he knew what the half-full cup was.

I gasp. 'Wait! Do you think he was talking about this magic cup or chalice, or whatever it is?'

'The Calix Puritatis?'

'Yes. Maybe a half-full cup isn't as symbolic as we think it is. Maybe it's quite literally _a cup_.'

'Yes, you might be right, Noa,' Max says excitedly.

Thoughts race through my brain as I try to recollect every second of my meeting with Grant and then with Ross, every word spoken, every word _not_ spoken, every pause, every expression.

'Grant was really reluctant to give me the second part of the message,' I muse. 'He said he didn't want to burden me with a truth that might put me in danger.'

'Noa…' Max's voice is full of warning. Bless, he's so protective sometimes.

'I know, I know. He wanted to be sure he could trust me.'

'Noa!'

I stop my thought-racing at Max's insistent tone. 'What?'

Max isn't looking at me though. He's staring past me. 'Look.' He stays absolutely still, but nods subtly towards the doorway.

My bedside lamp flickers then dies, leaving us with only the light from my laptop. My heart jumps into my throat as I notice a figure shrouded in shadow in the doorway. I can't make out the person's face. A hood covers his head and he is dressed in a black robe tied with a rope belt. He looks like he's raided the wardrobe department of some medieval costume drama.

He's not very tall, but my heart still hammers. In fact, he's probably my height or even shorter. I could probably take him on… with Spock's help. I look around for Spock and hear a faint whimpering from under my bed.

I gulp.

This person is most definitely not of this world, unless he's going to a fancy dress party, in which case I would ask what he's doing in my bedroom.

'H-hello?' I squeak.

He steps forward. I can just about make out a bulbous nose and sagging jowls. He must be quite old. His wardrobe makes him seem a lot older, like Middle Ages old. His eyes are blackened by shadows but I can feel his piercing gaze looking right through me. It is not a pleasant feeling. I wonder if it's possible to be visited by demons. So far all the spirits I've been visited by have been fairly amenable

'Noa Drury?' he demands in a raspy tone, like he's talking through a mask.

I hesitate. Spirits don't usually know my name.

* * *

Copyright © H.R. Aidan, 2017


	4. How's Your Latin?

**4 – HOW'S YOUR LATIN?**

* * *

'Noa Drury?' he says again and once more I hesitate.

Most look to me to tell _them_ what's going on. This one seems ahead of the game.

I consider avoiding the issue and telling him Noa Drury no longer lives here. Somehow I don't think he'd believe me. 'Yes,' I manage at last.

The shadows move on his face as he smiles slightly. 'You are the messenger?'

I nod.

'Deliver this to Ross Dwyer: _Polaris viam ad divinationem circumvertit;_

 _Et hominis spiritum transcendit._

 _Tu sorbeus vinum infinitatis;_

 _Priusquam acquirant salutem labra humilitatis_.'

I stare at him in horror. ' _What_?'

The hooded man nods. 'Deliver it for Scrydan. Ábéodan.' He bows and begins to fade away.

'Wait!' I exclaim, forgetting my fear and scrambling off my bed. 'Wait, I don't know what that means!'

The spirit disappears and the temperature creeps up.

I jump off my bed to look for him. 'Blast! Can we call him back?'

Max looks dubious. I realise he's never actually been here when I've received a message before.

'Are the spirits that visit you always that creepy?'

Scrydan's not hiding in the cupboard and he's not outside my door either.

'No, never. Who _was_ that guy?'

'Scrydan?' Max suggests helpfully.

I rush back to my laptop and wince. 'Oh no, I'm forgetting it already. I don't know Latin.'

'What are you doing?'

'Trying to write down his message before it goes completely.'

'Polaris viam ad divinationem circumvertit – no, V.I. _A_.M. –'

I look at him in surprise. 'You know Latin?'

'Of course. I had to learn it at school…'

He recites and spells the rest of the message to me and finally I can look at the screen where the message is safely recorded and relax. But I still have no idea what it means.

Max is quick to assist.

'Polaris pivots the track to divination;

And transcends the spirit of man.

Thou sup'st the wine of infinity;

Before lips of humility gain salvation.'

I stare at him. 'Okay, that makes marginally more sense than it did before. But still, who was that guy? What century was he from?'

'If his native tongue is Latin it could be anywhere from the first to the fifth century,' says Max. 'But what kind of name is _Scrydan_?'

'And what does "Ábéodan" mean?'

'Will your computer know?' he asks.

'Isn't it Latin?'

Max shakes his head. 'Not to my knowledge.'

I type it into my trusty search engine, hoping I've got the spelling correct. We strike it lucky with a Google suggestion. 'It's Old English or Anglo-Saxon according to this site. It means farewell.'

'Which should make him from between the fifth and the eleventh century.'

'And the name Scrydan is also Anglo-Saxon,' I add, typing again. 'So if he speaks Latin and Old English, then presumably he must be from around the transition time when the Roman Empire fell in England?'

Max looks impressed with my knowledge of British history. To my credit, history is one of the few subjects I enjoy at school.

'Very good, but not necessarily,' he replies. 'Latin continued to be used in the church because of the influence of Rome and the Catholic faith.' I pause to consider this, but Max carries on. 'But what century he's from is surely not as important as who the message is for? He said to give it to _Ross_.'

'You're right,' I say, refocussing my attention. 'I've never had two spirits – one after the other – have messages for the same person. Coincidence, maybe?'

'Seems doubtful,' Max says with a shrug. 'Don't you think?'

'Yeah.' The more I think about it, the less coincidental it becomes. 'There's usually a gap between messages too. But it's only been a few hours since I gave the last message to Ross.'

'That Scrydan must have been waiting for his chance.'

I nod. One of the 'rules' of my engagement with the spirit world is that I can only receive more messages once the last has been delivered. I don't know if this is to prevent a bombardment of spirits at my door or what, all I do know is that failure to deliver a message also prevents Max from visiting… so, I keep doing it, even the ones I don't want to do.

'What is Ross going to think when I knock on his door with this next message from some medieval dude talking in Latin and Old English riddles?'

'To be fair, the last message from Grant wasn't exactly clear as day either, was it?' Max points out. 'Yet he didn't freak out too much about that one. Look on the bright side, at least you don't have to explain yourself to him again.'

'Yeah, great,' I say without enthusiasm. 'Now he'll just go from thinking I'm a little odd to thinking I'm out and out insane.'

* * *

The following day, I'm sitting at the breakfast table munching through another bowl of choc-pops – my staple diet at the moment – when the telephone rings on the wall beside the fridge. I glower. I don't have the patience for cold callers this time of day. Nevertheless, I swallow my mouthful and get up to answer.

'Hello?'

'Curtis Drury, please,' says a man with a wheezy voice. He doesn't sound like he's trying to sell us life insurance.

I look through the kitchen doorway in the direction of the stairs. I can just make out the faint snores of Dad coming from his bedroom upstairs.

'He's not available right now,' I say, my inner-receptionist kicking in. 'Can I take a message?'

The man huffs. 'Who is this?'

'I'm Noa, his daughter.'

'Well, Noa, my name is Mr Alfred Preston and I'd appreciate it if your father would return my calls.' There's a steely edge to his voice which rises as he continues. 'He promised he would find my Renoir!'

I presume this has something to do with the painting photos on Dad's corkboard – the same one that hasn't had any new leads pinned to it for days. Nevertheless, I summon up the remains of my civility and do my best to assuage his client. 'Sorry, Mr Preston, I'm sure he's doing his best to find it. I'll let him know you called. Does he have your number?'

'Yes, thank you. Please do.' The annoyance in his voice is replaced by surprise. Hasn't he heard a teenager be polite before?

I hang up and glare up at the stairs where I can still hear Dad snoring. He doesn't appear to be working very hard on finding Mr Preston's Renoir, which presumably has gone missing.

I've got more pressing things to think about though. I return to my breakfast and open my laptop. I type in a search for the Calix Puritatis and settle down to read while I eat.

Just then Max appears and sets off the smoke alarm with his presence (I don't know if it's something to do with electro-magnetic energy or what, but fire alarms don't like him).

'Morning!' Max shouts above the noise.

I get up and laboriously drag my chair into the middle of the room to stand on and switch the alarm off.

'Morning,' I reply when finally it's quiet.

Max beams at me. 'That's better. Thank you. How are you today on this bright and breezy morn?'

'Fine,' I grumble, dragging my chair back to the table and sitting down to my breakfast again. I'm not fine really. I barely slept and when I did I kept dreaming that that creepy spirit Scrydan was evicting us from our home. 'You sound cheerful.'

'And so should you.' He gestures to the kitchen window. 'The sun is shining and the world is alive with the joys of summer.'

'Except you,' I mutter into my choc-pops.

'Why are you in a mood?' he asks.

I sign and nod to the wall clock. It's past ten o'clock. 'Dad still hasn't come down for breakfast. Him snoring in bed isn't going to pay these,' I say, gesturing to the pile of final demand letters.

Max sobers. 'He has his good days and his bad, right?'

It's difficult to recall any good ones recently, but I suppose there are some. 'I guess. Seems to be having more bad than good nowadays.'

'Then let's chalk this up to a bad day and look forward to his next good day, shall we?'

I nod and try to smile. I can see Max is trying to cheer me up. And although I'm cross with Dad, I'm also worried about him. I know he doesn't mean to get drunk, that there's a reason for it, an unhappy reason which I can't or don't know how to fix. I look at Max, see his hopeful smile and already my spirits lift. I wish I could make Dad feel better the way Max does for me.

'Are we going to deliver that message to Ross today?' he asks.

'Hmm,' I say through a mouthful of choc-pops. 'First I want to find out who this Scrydan person is, and maybe try figure out that riddle of a message I'm supposed to pass on.'

Max sits down and leans across the table keenly. 'Oh yes, let's. I love riddles!'

'I hope you're better at solving them than I am. I'm useless.'

'I was the champion of all riddle games at parties,' says Max proudly.

I give him a heavy-lidded look. 'You played riddle games at parties?'

Max looks offended. 'Don't knock it. My parties were a good deal different to the chaotic mayhem you call parties nowadays.'

I snort. 'Yeah, like you regularly see me going to parties and getting stoned.'

'Well, come to think of it, opium was rather popular in my day so maybe they're not so different, after all.' He grins and rubs his hands together. 'So, what have we got?'

'Nothing at the minute.' I reach over my choc-pops and click a link on my laptop. 'Actually I was just about to read an article about the Calix Puritatis.'

'Oh yes, the magic chalice?'

I can tell he's teasing me, but I ignore him. It's too early. 'Cup of Purity, if you will.'

I move the laptop so he can read too and get up to fetch some orange juice from the fridge. I turn back to see Max sitting up as alert as a meerkat, his eyes wide. He stares at me.

'Have you read this yet?' he says.

'No. I just told you I was about to. Why?'

'Listen to this: " _The Calix Puritatis, otherwise known as the Cup of Purity, is believed to pardon a person of their sins, allowing them safe passage to Heaven without fear of condemnation for their wrong doings…_ " Okay, okay, we know all that,' he says catching my look of impatience, 'but then it says " _The Calix Puritatis is said to have been blessed by an eleventh century monk serving at the abbey church where now stands Ely Cathedral in Cambridgeshire, England. The first stone of what would eventually become Ely Cathedral was laid in 1083 by the presiding abbot, Simeon. However, the late 1000s was a particularly turbulent time as the abbey endured the Siege of Ely, and it is not known how the monk came to possess the Calix Puritatis or what became of it. It is commonly accepted that he stored the blessed chalice somewhere in the ruins of the original monastery, the whereabouts of which are still unknown, despite numerous archaeological excavations._ " Guess what the monk's name was?'

Max and I stare at each other. I forget the bottle of orange juice in my hand poised for pouring. 'Scrydan?' I say.

'Yup. That's what it says.'

I rush back to my seat to double check the article. I think back to last night's visitor. I can't quite convince myself. It seems too surreal. 'Do you really think it could be the same guy?'

'Has to be, surely,' says Max. 'First, there was Grant Fitzpatrick's message about the Calix Puritatis to Ross, and then the original owner of the chalice turns up with a message for him too. It's all connected, it must be.'

'Wow.' I gaze across the room as the magnitude of Scrydan's visit hits home. 'That means the Calix Puritatis must definitely exist. I've never had a visitor from so far back. Apart from you, they've all been really recent, like recent enough to still have direct relatives alive.'

'He had to have pulled some strings to make it happen. Transpiriting ten centuries is no small feat.'

'I guess it explains his wardrobe then if he's a monk from the eleventh century – that robe and that hood.'

'Not really my style,' says Max with a sniff. 'Presumably his message also has something to do with the Calix Puritatis. You wrote it down, didn't you?'

'Yes…' I open a folder and retrieve the document I saved the riddle in. 'Do you want the Latin or the English version?'

'Let's go English. I never much liked Latin class.'

'Okay. " _Polaris pivots the track to divination;_

 _And transcends the spirit of man._

 _Thou sup'st the wine of infinity;_

 _Before lips of humility gain salvation._ "'

I pause to think, but like I just told Max, I'm hopeless at riddles. I turn to the 'champion' riddle master. 'Any ideas?'

Max frowns at the screen for a few moments more. 'Honestly, I don't know exactly what the message intends, but I think now we know who he is, it's pretty obvious it's about the Calix Puritatis. " _Polaris pivots the track to divination…_ " I don't know. What do you think?'

'Polaris is a star, I know that much,' I reply. 'But I don't see what all the pivoting tracks to divination could mean. Maybe dancing to Heaven? I don't know. What about the next line? That might shed some light on it.'

'" _And transcends the spirit of man_ …" That must mean something to do with cleansing the soul, surely? That's what the Calix Puritatis is supposed to do.'

I have no alternatives to offer. 'Sounds good to me. " _…Thou sup'st the wine of infinity_ …" Wine is often associated with the church and holy water, isn't it? So it could mean drinking blessed water…'

' _Or_ from a blessed chalice,' counters Max. 'Then lastly, " _Before lips of humility gain salvation_."'

'The drinker's lips become humble and so they get into Heaven?'

Max looks far from confident but he nods. 'In a nutshell, yes, I think so. What's it saying all together then? That something or other happens in order for the soul to be cleansed, and that by drinking from the blessed cup they become humble enough to pass into Heaven.'

We look at each other, trying to figure out what the message is telling us that we don't already know from the Internet. Just goes to show how useful Google is sometimes.

Max shrugs. 'Well, if it's not telling us anything new, I don't see any harm in giving Ross his message.'

I shake my head. 'No, I don't think we've got it completely. We haven't got that first line right. We're missing something – something important.' I pause to consider what we might be missing, what was so important that Scrydan transpirited ten centuries to tell me. 'I – I think it's a clue as to where the Calix Puritatis is.'

Max looks at me in surprise. 'You mean where it's been hidden for nearly a thousand years?'

Put like that, I can appreciate the enormity of my claim. 'Kind mindblowing, but yeah.'

Max is too deep in thought to make a joke of it. He nods soberly. 'Okay, so we give the location of the Calix Puritatis to an archaeologist. You can't get much safer than that, can you?'

I sigh. 'Yeah, I know, but even so…'

'What?'

'What if he _is_ responsible for Grant's death?' I point out. 'If we tell him how to find this chalice that absolves a person of their sins, he'll never be held accountable for murdering Grant.'

Max sits back in resignation and holds his hands out wide. 'What do you want to do then? We can't _not_ tell him. You know what will happen.'

I nod. 'Yeah, I know,' I say quietly.

It's in the rules of spirit engagement. If I don't deliver a message to its intended recipient, eventually Max won't be able to gain access to the mortal world and I'll never see him again. At least, not in this lifetime. And I just can't live without him around. I _need_ him. But if it means a murderer could cheat his way into Heaven then surely it would be the right thing to do? I consider a life without Max, of just me and Dad and his gin bottle, and wince. I know I'm being selfish, but still…

'There's only one other option,' I say.

Max looks wary. 'Oh no, you have that look on your face. What are you going to do?'

'We find the Calix Puritatis first, and _then_ give Ross his message.'

* * *

Copyright © H.R. Aidan, 2017.


	5. Picture Perfect

**5 – PICTURE PERFECT**

* * *

My mood improves as Max and I wander through Cambridge towards the suburb of Chesterton. Through the overhanging trees that line the road on either side, dappled sunlight blinks through, warming my neck. I wish I could have brought Spock along but he can't accompany us on this mission.

'Remind me again how visiting Grant Fitzpatrick's sister is going to help us find the Calix Puritatis?' Max says.

'There's more to Grant's message than we're assuming,' I reply. 'I think he was closer to finding the chalice than we give him credit for. I want to get to know him a bit more, find out about his last movements. Maybe that will shed some light on the chalice.'

'And is visiting Grant's twin the reason why you've done your hair differently?' Max probes.

I touch my pigtail bunches nervously. I'm not really a pigtail kind of girl, and my hair is certainly too wild to be subservient enough to be coaxed into plaits, so usually I let it do what it likes (which is stick out on end like an eighties rockstar), but today there's a reason for the extra effort.

'You'll see,' I tell Max.

We turn down a quiet side street of beautiful Victorian townhouses whose white-washed walls gleam in the sunshine.

'If she lives here then she's certainly not short of money,' says Max, eyeing all the expensive cars lining the street.

'Pity she didn't share it with her brother then, if Grant was having cashflow problems.'

We walk up to an emerald green door with a ram's head brass knocker that, when I lift it to knock, reveals a wolf's head beneath. I shudder.

Moments later, a voice calls out, 'Who is it?'

'Miss Fitzpatrick?' I yell through the door. 'My name is Noa. I'd like to speak to you if you've a moment.'

The door opens and a woman, looking the feminine version of Grant, stands before me. She's scruffier though. Her hair is tousled and sun-bleached, unlike Grant who was meticulously groomed. Her wardrobe is also different. Jules Fitzpatrick wears a t-shirt stained with paint smudges and faded jeans. But she has the same facial features and is tall like her twin.

'Yes?' She wipes her hands on a grubby flannel, but her palms and fingernails are still stained with paint. Although I didn't pay much attention to Grant's hands, I'd have expected them to be scrubbed clean and manicured. I put on my sweetest shyest schoolgirl smile. 'Hi, I'm doing a school project on archaeology and I wanted to pay tribute to your brother Grant. So…' I cock my head slightly to best show off the cuteness of my pigtail bunches. '…I was wondering, if it's not too much trouble, whether you'd mind chatting to me about him?'

Jules considers me for a minute, an easy smile on her lips. 'Sure. Why not?' she says at last. 'Come on in.'

* * *

Jules leads us into a large open-plan living room and conservatory area. Sunshine pouring through the glass walls of the conservatory keeps it bright and an overhead fan dispels the pervading smell of paint chemicals hanging in the air. I glimpse an artist's easel with a painting of some sort of building on it in the conservatory part of the room.

'I see she's a fan of her own work,' says Max, gesturing to the paintings hanging on the walls. Each bears the signature _J Fitz_.

'Your paintings – they're very good,' I say in Jules's defence.

Jules breaks into a broad grin like I'm the first person ever to say so. 'Why, thank you.'

'And has an extraordinary amount of mirrors,' continues Max with a raised eyebrow.

I ignore what he's insinuating.

'Would you like a drink?' Jules offers. 'It's hot out there.'

'If it's not too much trouble.'

'Not at all. I was just about to take a break anyway.'

She leads the way into a smart modern kitchen and takes a carton out of the fridge. She sloshes an inch into two glasses then pauses. 'Is it midday yet?'

'Just, it's ten past,' I say, checking my watch.

Jules's eyes twinkle with mischief. 'Would you like something stronger in that then?'

I hear Max tut behind me.

'Er – just juice is fine, thanks,' I say.

Jules shrugs and finishes pouring. She then takes an ice-tray from the freezer, pauses to look at her dirty hands. 'Sorry, would you mind? I don't want to poison us.'

'Of course.' I step forward and pick out a few cubes of ice.

'Cheers,' says Jules, raising her glass.

'Cheers.'

We chink glasses and I can already feel myself liking Jules. She's so relaxed and easy-going, and she obviously has Grant's charm.

'Come through and we can chat all you like. I have some photos too if they'd help your project?'

'That would be amazing.' Actually, I don't know how amazing it really would be, but I am pleased she's being so helpful.

* * *

We sit in the living room on comfortable couches. Max remains standing, wandering around, looking critically at the paintings and framed photographs lining the tables and mantelpieces. I notice most of them feature Jules herself.

Max passes by our host's seat and a small frown flits across Jules's face. She gets up again to turn down the overhead fan. 'It's cooler in here than I expected.'

I glance Max's way and try not to blush.

'So, what would you like to know?' she says, taking her seat again. 'What is this project about?'

I ready myself for the story I've been concocting since this morning and try to make it as unrehearsed as possible. 'Well, we have to choose a subject then we have to profile someone in that line of work – someone well known. I got some stuff off the Internet, but I don't like to believe everything I read –'

'So, you shouldn't,' Jules says agreeably.

'Plus, it's always nice to get a more personal viewpoint of the person.'

'Absolutely. I wish I'd been more dedicated to my studies when I was your age. My dyslexia didn't help either. The only class I ever paid any attention in was Art.' She pauses then pulls an undecided face. 'Actually, on second thoughts, maybe I don't wish that. I rather enjoy my life as it is. No regrets.' She beams at me, good-natured.

I can imagine her being a popular but cheeky student, clever enough to know how to get herself out of trouble with the teachers.

I try to appear bashful, not quite meeting her eye. 'I did see some of your work online before I got here. You're very good.'

Jules glows. 'Thank you. I've been doing it a long time now.'

Sensing Jules rather enjoys her ego being polished, I dare to flatter her even more. 'Not that long surely. If I didn't already know you were Grant's twin, I'd say you were his much younger sister.'

Jules laughs but doesn't contradict me. 'Grant was the brains of the family. And I was… well, you should see pictures of our mother. She was a stunner, a proper classic beauty. Lived the rather dull life of a historian in a stuffy Cambridge college, but she still had the guys falling at her feet in her day.'

'And your father?'

'A pilot,' replies Jules. 'Sounds so dashing, doesn't it? When Grant and I were kids, we would go on holidays to North Africa with our folks – I guess that's where Grant's interest in archaeology developed. Then our dad was killed in an accident when we were twelve – not in a plane crash, but a bicycle crash, can you believe it? Came off and hit his head. Wasn't wearing a helmet.'

'I'm sorry,' I say, genuinely. I know what it's like to lose a parent so young.

Jules shakes her head and shrugs. ' _C'est la vie_ , right?'

'You say Grant got into archaeology in North Africa?'

'Yeah, at least in part. They've got all those pharaoh tombs and ancient civilisations there, haven't they? Not really my thing, to be honest. Historical art, now that's a different matter. Take me to an art museum and I'll be your captive audience all day long, but I don't have the energy to sit in the hot sun dusting off old bones and broken pottery with a toothbrush.'

I have to stop myself from digging too deep too quickly; I think of Grant dusting off ancient relics with a toothbrush and try to do the same with Jules. I mightn't be any closer to learning the whereabouts of the Calix Puritatis yet, but I am learning a bit more about what kind of person Grant was. 'You mentioned your mother was a historian too,' I say. 'Presumably, she was interested in those sorts of things?'

'Of course. She encouraged us both to take an interest in the past, to respect it and conserve it. It's why I do what I do, I suppose, restoring paintings,' she says gesturing around her. 'In fact, Grant and I used to have a business, dealing in historical art and artefacts. But that was years ago.'

'What happened to it?'

Jules shrugs, her charming persona slipping for a second. 'It closed down. See, it wasn't just us two. Grant's… _friend_ from university days, Ross, was also a partner.'

My ears prick up at the name and even Max starts to pay attention.

'Ross Dwyer?'

'Yeah, I guess you've heard of him since they ran The Big Dig together before Grant died. It's no wonder what happened, happened. Ross could drive anyone to suicide.'

Max and I exchange discreet glances. He abandons his investigative nosing around the room and comes to sit on the arm of my couch to listen to our conversation.

'You didn't get on with Ross?' I prompt Jules.

She shakes her head. 'He's a two-faced – oh, there's no polite way to say it. A douchebag. Had no idea how to run a successful business. He was always off doing his own thing, doing things _he_ thought would turn a profit. Pah!'

'Like what?'

She hesitates and looks at me with more wariness, and I bite my cheek for pushing too hard. I look down and take a leisurely sip of my drink to break the intensity of the moment.

It does the trick. 'Just stuff, stuff which we disagreed on,' says Jules. 'There was no "partnership" in it.'

I can't help but be intrigued by this different side to the Ross I met, and it reinforces our original suspicions of him. 'Did Grant get on with Ross?' I ask.

'Grant was a lot more tolerant than me.' There is a hint of a sneer in her voice. 'But then again, he and Ross shared a lot of the same interests in archaeology. I was more into the arts than the artefacts.'

'So, the business closed because you didn't get on?'

Jules gives me another wary look, and I curse myself for pushing too hard.

I give her my most sympathetic look. 'It must have been so disappointing for you.'

With a sympathetic audience, Jules's confidence is bolstered and she continues her gripe. 'I left long before that. But, what with our different "business plans", shall we say,' she says, air quoting the words, 'it was doomed from the start. Let's leave it at that.'

'Of course,' I say, averting my eyes like the shy schoolgirl I'm supposed to be. 'Sorry, I didn't mean to pry.'

Jules's good humour returns and she cracks a smile and winks at me. 'No need to apologise. I get cranky when I talk about Ross, that's all.'

I wait a beat, wondering if we've warmed up enough to move on with my true mission. 'Did Grant ever mention the Calix Puritatis?' I venture.

Jules cocks her head to one side. 'If that's the magic cup that he spent his life chasing after, then yes.'

'You don't believe it existed?'

Jules laughs. 'I don't know. It sounds all a bit too _Indiana Jones_ , don't you think? Grant loved that sort of thing. All those myths and legends. It wouldn't surprise me if he kept a fedora hat and whip hidden away for special occasions.'

'Can you recall when he last spoke of it?'

'I don't know,' says Jules, not pausing to even think. 'He was always going on about it. You tune out after a while.' She catches sight of my disappointment and hesitates. 'I suppose the last time I remember him mentioning it was when he was trying to get funding for a new dig. He didn't say where, but…' A frown creases her forehead.

'But what?'

'Well, he sounded really excited about it. But then he always got really excited about possible leads,' she continues, fobbing off her own suspicions. 'They never amounted to anything, mind. And I suppose he knew it really, because he went and bought a house instead.' She looks at me with a 'go figure' expression. 'The dig couldn't have been that important if he was able to raise funds for a house instead of the dig, now, could it?'

I shrug, and try to appear appeasing. I honestly have no idea. It does sound a little odd that Grant should spend money on buying a new house if he was desperate for dig money.

'Anyway,' says Jules with a sigh. 'In the end, he just gave himself too much to do.'

'How so?'

'His and Ross's business, The Big Dig, was close to bankruptcy. That _Time Trap_ TV show was finished, so he wasn't earning any money or getting exposure from that anymore. He and Ross were always battling to raise funds for their next dig. Plus, he was working on renovations for the new house. It must have just been too much for him.' She shakes her head and looks sadly down at the floor, blinking back tears.

My heart goes out to her. Jules is far from perfect but she obviously loved her brother, her twin.

'Are you okay talking about this?' I ask.

She looks up again and puts a brave smile back on her face. 'Of course.'

'You sure it's not too upsetting?'

Jules sinks the last of her drink and smiles reassuringly. 'I'm made of tougher stuff. Grant's death was obviously very upsetting at the time. The worst was having to clear out all his things. So many memories.' She shakes her head nostalgically. 'His death was just so out of the blue. I'd been planning to go have a drink with him that evening, then the police came round and said he'd been found earlier that day. Just like that.' Jules snaps her paint-stained fingers. 'One minute he's alive in your mind and you're thinking of all the things you want to tell him over a drink, the next he's dead, gone forever and you'll never get to tell him those things.'

She sighs and her eyes glitter with unshed tears. I feel genuinely bad for upsetting her.

'I'm sorry. I don't want to upset you. Maybe I should go now.'

'No, no,' Jules rushes. 'You haven't finished your juice yet and I haven't shown you any of Grant's photos. I've got an entire album of our holidays in Egypt and Tunisia.'

She gets up and opens a wall cupboard and pulls out a volume from a stack of photo albums. She opens it on the glass table between us and points to a page showing four photos of two skinny children, browned by the African sun, their hair bleached blond, posing in front of the Pyramids beside a pleasant looking man, presumably their father, and a gorgeous woman wearing big dark glasses and a wide-brimmed hat. Jules was a bit of a tomboy it would seem.

She turns the page to more photos of them posing in front of ancient monuments or riding on camels. 'It came as such a shock because he loved life so much. His whole career was dedicated to unearthing life, revealing buried secrets, bringing the old back to life… At first I couldn't believe he'd taken his own life.'

'You and us both,' murmurs Max, studying the photos.

'You thought someone else had something to do with it?' I ask tentatively. I can't help it but my thoughts stray to Ross, the business partner who liked to do things 'his way'.

Jules shrugs. 'Sure. I guess I was in denial, looking for someone to blame. But in the end, we had to accept the evidence. He'd left a note.'

I bite my lip. I'm dying to ask what the note said, but I don't feel quite brave enough to ask. It's not my business, and it's certainly not business I'd need to know for my fabled school project.

Jules turns another page. 'He'd said he couldn't go on anymore, that he'd met with so many failures there wasn't any point in carrying on.'

The details sound vague, a stereotypical suicide note if you ask me, perfect for a forgery.

'I read he poisoned himself. Is that right?'

'Yeah.' Jules gulps. She's having trouble thinking about it, I can tell. 'Some chemical called cadmium, I don't know. Apparently, you find it in batteries. Very toxic.'

'I'm so sorry.' Genuinely, I am. It doesn't sound a pleasant way to die at all, be it suicide or murder.

'Yeah, me too,' she says quietly.

With Jules promising to make copies of the photos for me, I get ready to depart. I glance at the painting on the easel that I glimpsed on the way in. There is a colour palate on a table beside it, alongside a tuft of paintbrushes in a grubby cup presumably for rinsing and mixing. I see now that the painting is of a very grand church.

'I like your painting there. It's very good,' I say, trying to lift Jules's spirits.

She pauses to look at it. 'Thanks. I'd like to take the credit but actually I'm restoring it.' Her modesty makes me rethink Jules's high opinion of herself. 'It's supposedly a church in Ely, about fifteen miles from here. Have you been?'

I nod. 'School trips.'

Jules grins. 'Your school sounds a lot more fun than mine was. This church doesn't exist today, mind you,' she continues, gesturing to the painting. 'I couldn't find it. But I liked the challenge it presented.'

'Is it done by someone famous?'

Jules laughs. 'No, or maybe it is, I don't know. It's not signed so I don't know who painted it originally.' Her mobile rings and she gives me a regretful look. 'Sorry, I'm going to have to take this.'

'Of course,' I say, hurrying along to the door. 'Thanks so much for chatting with me and telling me about Grant.'

Jules opens the door for me and waves me through. 'My pleasure. Glad to have helped. Good luck with your project and I'll be in touch about those photos. Bye.'

She gives me a small wave as I step outside and she closes the front door, answering her phone at the same time. 'Hi, Ted. Sorry about that. Had a visitor…'

I stand on the step for a moment longer, looking at the creepy ram-wolf door knocker and it makes me wonder if Ross is a wolf in sheep's clothing. Jules certainly wasn't a fan of his. She'd said he had his own ideas about how to run a successful business. Yet she wouldn't say if his practices had been illegal. Did she have to? Wasn't it what she was implying though? My feelings harden against Ross, how he's taken advantage of Grant, being the amiable person he was.

Max drifts through the door the next moment, looking creeped out. 'Eurgh,' he says, brushing down his shoulders. 'I hate going through things. You'd think she'd at least wait until we were all out before closing the door.'

I catch Max's teasing smile. 'Come on. We've got work to do.'

* * *

Copyright © H.R. Aidan, 2017


	6. Cathedral Secrets

**6 – CATHEDRAL SECRETS**

* * *

A couple of hours later, Max and I are puffing our way up the hill towards Ely Cathedral from the train station.

'The thing I don't get is if Ross is guilty of murdering Grant then why would the spirit of Scrydan want to help him absolve him of his sins?'

'Maybe Scrydan has a rebellious streak,' suggests Max.

'But he was a _monk_! He's meant to be good, not sneak murderers into Heaven.'

Max shrugs in defeat. 'Then maybe Ross isn't the enemy.'

'Maybe.'

'Really?' Max looks at me in surprise.

'Well, all we really have on him is Jules's opinion. And let's face it, he was really nice when we met him.'

'But doesn't Jules's opinion count for something?' argues Max. 'She did imply he was acting illegally at their old company.'

' _Implied_ though,' I stress. 'We just interpreted what she said to suit our opinion of Ross.'

'Does that mean you're going to deliver Scrydan's message to him?' Max asks.

'I have to, either way.'

'Do you?' Max stops and his gaze is solemn.

'Course I do.'

We look at each other for a long moment. We both know what is at stake, both know deep down what lengths we'd go to for one another. Max raises his hand to touch my cheek then falters. He blinks and snaps out of the moment.

'I thought we were going to find the Calix Puritatis first. That is why we're here, isn't it?'

We carry on walking. I'm feeling a bit weird after that deep moment. 'Yeah.'

'You still have your doubts?'

'The thing is, I know Scrydan was a monk, and monks are meant to be good and it doesn't make any sense that he'd help Ross if he _is_ guilty, but what if Scrydan isn't a very good monk? What if he used the Calix Puritatis to cheat his way into Heaven as well?'

We stop at the top of the hill as Ely Cathedral looms into sight, its magnificent stone turrets and steeples rising up to touch the pale blue sky.

'I guess there's only one way to be sure,' Max says.

'Yup, let's go see what they know.'

* * *

The awe-inspiring scale of the cathedral only really becomes apparent when we get up close. Tourists, wandering around the great building, are dwarfed by its size. Inside, hushed voices and footsteps on the stone slabs echo around its chambers. Its intricate architecture of every square inch is enough to pull me up short to gaze around in wonder.

'They've redecorated since I was last here,' says Max, sniffing in disapproval at the gift shop teeming with tourists.

'Were you a choir boy?' I ask.

'Pah! Not likely.'

At first I think it's my imagination, coming into the gloominess of the cathedral from the brightness of outside, but as Max laughs, I notice his image fading.

'Why are you fading out?'

Max looks down at himself dubiously. 'Maybe being in a spiritual house interferes with transpiration.'

Somewhat guiltily, I can't argue with that. In the eight years I've known Max we've never put it to the test.

'Good afternoon,' says a guide dressed in a smart navy blue uniform. 'Can I help you?'

'I hope so.' I give her my sweetest schoolgirl smile. 'Would you be able to tell me a bit about the history of the cathedral?'

The guide beams at me. 'You can join a tour if you like.'

'Okay. When is the next one?'

'Not for another half hour. I can give you a brochure in the meantime.' She's quick to stuff a leaflet into my hand.

'Am I allowed to wander?' I ask, unsure if I need to pay an entrance fee or not.

'Of course.'

* * *

Walking down the nave, I join the dawdling tourists all speaking in whispers. The ceiling above shows a spectacular fresco that must have taken decades to complete. I'm drawn towards a group gathered in front of the choir, where a woman, also dressed in navy blue uniform, is talking.

Max, looking a faded shadow of his usual self, lingers on the outskirts of the group with me.

'After the Normans raided Britain, Ely Abbey lands were seized,' says the tour guide in an accomplished hushed-raised voice. It must be a practiced skill working with the acoustics of the cathedral. 'There followed the Siege of Ely, led by Hereward the Wake, a local resistance leader. He was defeated, however, and the abbey's wealth and treasures were stolen.'

Keen to hear better, I sidle through the crowd to get a better position.

'To keep its status according to the new Norman rule, Ely had to rebuild its abbey,' the tour guide continues. 'In 1082, Simeon, who was the brother of the Bishop of Winchester, was made Abbott of Ely, and the following year, aged 90, he laid the first stone here of what would become the cathedral you see today.'

Looking around at the cathedral's enormity, it's a struggle to wrap my head around such architectural ambitions in such primitive times.

'The last remaining part of that early abbey lies here at the top of the nave and part of the transepts on either side of us,' the tour guide says gesturing to the two 'wings' off the central aisle that, from an aerial view, I realise form a gigantic cross.

'These were added to over the years. Simeon built the choir which you see behind me here, but did not live to see it completed. He died just eleven years after taking his abbacy, and his seven most loyal monks rebelled against the authorities. They plundered the church and hot-footed it back to Winchester with the goods.'

The mention of monks behaving badly is too much for me not to ask, 'Did they include Scrydan?'

The tour guide pauses in her spiel to look at me. 'Records are inconclusive of the precise identity of the monks.' She gives me a patronising smile. 'This did happen over nine hundred years ago.'

I sense her annoyance at having her tour interrupted by a non-paying member and drift away before I get chucked out. Max and I walk through the choir, marvelling at the intricate wooden carvings on the stalls either side of the patterned-tile floor.

'So, which was your pew?' I tease Max.

'They're called stalls, not pews, and like I said before, I wasn't a choir boy.' He gives me a heavy-lidded look and pretends to loosen his collar by flexing his neck. 'Although I do have a fine singing voice, I'll have you know.'

'I'll take your word for it.'

Stopping to run my hand over one of the carved angels on the end of a stall, I notice an elderly man with white hair and Leninist goatee looking curiously at me. I ignore him. I'm used to funny looks from people, especially when it appears I'm talking to myself.

Max and I walk through to the end of the choir and into a room in which lie the tombs of various bishops and knights. My brochure tells me I'm in St Etheldreda's Chapel, named after the woman who founded the original monastery back in the year 672. The old man catches my eye again and I hurry through to another chamber.

We wander around for another ten minutes in search of Simeon's tomb, but without success.

'Pardon me, what do you know of Scrydan?'

I turn in surprise to face the white-haired man. His goatee is finely groomed and he looks at me with intelligent blue eyes. He must be well into his sixties, if not seventies. His accent is posh British, but has a hint of Eastern European about it.

'Who's this guy?' says Max.

'Um…' I don't know who to answer first.

'I'm sorry, I couldn't help but overhear you asking the tour guide,' the man says with a kind smile. His hand shakes as he pats his neck with a silk handkerchief. 'Not many people know about Scrydan.'

My heart leaps in my chest. 'But you do?'

'Yes. My apologies, I should have introduced myself. I'm Tadeusz Melnik. I'm a professor in the history department at Cambridge University.' He holds out his trembling hand to shake mine. His skin is cool to the touch, dry and aged like crepe paper.

'You're bound to know more than me then,' I reply. 'All I know was that he was Simeon's most faithful monk.'

Professor Melnik's eyes light up. 'Indeed he was. To answer your earlier question, yes, it is believed by some that Scrydan formed part of the band who plundered the church. He was, as you say, Simeon's most committed monk.'

'Did he steal the Calix Puritatis?' I ask.

He is quick to cover his surprise with a smile. 'You know more than you let on. No one knows for sure. Scrydan was ordained very young. He was barely fifteen when he entered the church. It was a troubled time – the Vikings were still wreaking havoc and destroying churches and stealing their goods. In fact, it's believed the Calix Puritatis actually originated from St Albans, did you know that?' Professor Melnik raises a whiskery eyebrow. 'In the mid-eleventh century, the abbot there sent all the relics of St Alban to Ely for safe-keeping from the invading Danes, and when he got it all back he accused Ely of sending fakes.' His eyes gleam at such a scandal and he hurries on, obviously enjoying imparting his knowledge to an interested party. 'It's said that the Calix Puritatis was amongst the original relics that Ely kept, _if_ it existed at all.'

I pull a dubious face. 'Everything I've read does sound a lot like hearsay,' I agree. I'm not about to reveal Scrydan's visit to me the other evening. I don't want to raise his suspicions, but it appears I'm too late. Professor Melnik's brows knit.

'It is unusual for someone so young to have such a keen interest in history this obscure,' he says. 'May I ask why you're so interested in Scrydan?'

'School project,' I say with an insolent shrug. 'I like really old stuff.' I cast a sideways smile at Max and register his glare in return.

Melnik looks unconvinced for a moment then his face breaks into a creasy smile. 'Well, then, I shall have to help you now, won't I? What is your name?'

I consider giving him a fake name but the old guy looks innocent enough. 'Noa.'

'Noa…?' he prompts me for my full name and I feel the first seeds of doubt take root. But I'm being silly, this old man is harmless and he's obviously thrilled to find someone interested in a part of history he evidently knows a bit about. He's probably waited years for this.

'Noa Drury.'

'Well, Noa, there is a lot of hearsay and rumour surrounding the Calix Puritatis, but there is one fathom of proof.' He holds up one trembling finger misshapen by arthritis. 'William the Conqueror invaded Britain with his Norman army in –' He pauses and his eyes flash with a challenge. 'Do you know what year?'

'Of course.' I resist the urge to yawn. '1066. " _Said William the Conqueror in 1066; Green lands await you and for me a great throne; So courage my soldiers and clutch your bloodstone; To England from Normandy let us up sticks_."'

'Very good.' The professor claps his hands.

'I had that drummed into me from my first day at school,' I explain.

He laughs. 'Excellent. Simeon was a Norman himself – in fact, he was a relative of William the Conqueror, but he fought to _return_ the seized lands and treasures back to the church. In charge of the church's temporalities – which are its properties and assets – was Simeon's most trusted monk.'

'Scrydan?'

'Precisely. And bear in mind the church was very powerful back then and very rich. It would have owned a great deal of land. In 1086, the Domesday Book was compiled –' He looks at me, uncertain, as if he doesn't want to offend me. 'Have you heard of it?'

I have heard of it, but know relatively little about it. 'It was like an inventory of Britain, wasn't it?'

Professor Melnik beams. 'Very good, very good. A book of surveys, listing all the wealth, lands and livestock possessions in Britain. And guess what is listed in it?'

'The Calix Puritatis?' I gasp. Despite Scrydan's visit, there's always been that niggling doubt that the blessed chalice mightn't have ever existed, but if it was in the Domesday Book, then that's proper proof. 'So, it really did exist?'

'Oh, yes, it existed all right,' he says, as if the alternative is ludicrous to contemplate. ' _But_ whether it had the holy properties it's said to have is a different story.'

'So, if it truly did exist, what happened to it?' It surely couldn't be this easy, could it?

'I think you already have the answer,' Professor Melnik chuckles. 'Simeon died a few short years after the Domesday Book…'

'And Scrydan stole the Calix Puritatis when pillaging the church,' I finish for him.

The professor looks as pleased as if I were one of his favourite students, but there's a glint of mischief in his eyes. 'Perhaps. But those monks were a rowdy lot. On their way back to Winchester, they stopped off at an inn and got _ridiculously_ drunk and set fire to the place.'

I gasp. My whole mental image of monks being serene holy people who worshipped God and did good deeds is shattered forever.

'By accident, it would seem,' Professor Melnik hurries on, seeing my face, 'because all their stolen goods were burnt to ashes.'

I stare at him in horror. 'You mean the Calix Puritatis is _gone_? It doesn't exist anymore?'

I don't understand. I look at Max to see what his reaction is and he looks just as stunned. I don't understand why Grant Fitzpatrick dedicated his entire life to searching for something which I've discovered within a couple of hours' investigating was destroyed nine hundred years ago.

'Perhaps, perhaps not,' Professor Melnik says with a shrug. 'The thing is, before Simeon died, he went behind the backs of his monks to gain his official title of Abbot – up until then he wasn't officially recognised by Norman rule of law as Abbot. By betraying their trust, a wedge was driven between Simeon and his monks.'

'Including Scrydan?'

'Well, there's the mystery,' he says, raising a meaningful eyebrow. 'This falling out happened only a short while before Simeon's death. If Scrydan _had_ turned against Simeon then it stands to reason he wasn't one of the seven "loyal" monks responsible for pillaging the church and burning their loot.'

I can't help but feel relief that despite Scrydan losing faith in his beloved leader, it might just have saved the Calix Puritatis.

'No one knows for sure if the Calix Puritatis was in the fire or not,' says Professor Melnik. 'There's no further record of Scrydan or the Calix Puritatis after the Domesday Book. William the Conqueror died around the same time as Simeon and his successor ordered an inventory of the church's wealth, but no Calix Puritatis was recorded.'

My hopes droop again. 'Seems like it probably did get destroyed in the fire then.'

Professor Melnik wags a finger at me. 'Not necessarily. William the Conqueror's successor was his son, Rufus. Rufus was a tyrant who exploited the church's riches. It's possible that if Scrydan stayed behind, that he hid the Calix Puritatis so the greedy king couldn't benefit from its magical properties.'

I stare at him, wide-eyed. This mysterious cup has so much more to it than I'd at first imagined. My mind flits between all the possibilities, but there are too many speculations to form a solid lead to follow. 'There's nothing really concrete about the whole story, is there?' I say in disappointment.

'That's all part of the appeal,' Professor Melnik says, his eyes twinkling. 'Who doesn't love a good old mystery?'

He has no idea.

'The rumour mill never stops turning.' He leans in as if imparting another juicy nugget of gossip and whispers, 'Some say the Calix Puritatis was hidden in Ely Castle, but there's nothing to prove it.'

'Ely _Castle_?' I echo. I've never seen or heard of a castle in the area, and given Ely isn't the biggest of places, I'd imagine it would be pretty hard to miss.

'Yes. It was destroyed sometime in the thirteenth century. All that remains of it is the mound over on Cherry Hill. There was an archaeological dig there a few years back, but it stopped when they ran out of money. They didn't find the Calix Puritatis at any rate.'

The dig he's referring to must have been done by Grant and Ross. I wonder if they heard the same story and tried their luck?

'Did you know Grant Fitzpatrick?' I ask.

It might be my imagination, but Professor Melnik hesitates. 'I've heard the name, naturally.' He clears his throat and looks at his watch. 'That is the story of the Calix Puritatis, anyhow. You won't find anything more. I wish you luck on your school project, Noa, but if you'll excuse me, I'm to give a talk at the museum shortly.'

'Oh? On what?' I ask hopefully. I might tag along if there's anything relevant.

'Early medieval law. Nothing to do with the Calix Puritatis.'

I refrain from commenting I didn't realise they had lawyers in medieval times. He abruptly says his goodbyes, leaving me to wonder what I'd said to prompt such a hasty departure. The mention of Grant Fitzpatrick? But why?

* * *

Copyright © H.R. Aidan, 2017


	7. Danger: Keep Out

**7 – DANGER, KEEP OUT**

* * *

Max and I walk out into the sunshine and make our way back to the station. Worryingly, Max's image still hasn't sharpened, even outside the cathedral. We stop outside the grand medieval archway to King's School and Cherry Hill park beyond.

'Shall we go take a look?' I suggest.

'No harm in it,' Max replies with a shrug.

A pathway leads through the valley of the park; on one side rises Cherry Hill's lush undulating parkland dotted with thick beech and sycamore trees, and on the other a field occupied by Jersey cows rises up to meet the cathedral. There are a number of mounds rising above the gentle slope of Cherry Hill, but Max and I climb the most hopeful. Close by, a speckled spaniel with floppy ears and doleful eyes chases its ball, but on seeing Max, runs away yelping.

Max looks at me and shrugs.

'There's nothing here,' I puff, a little annoyed as we reach the summit. 'Not even an old ruin stone. How are we supposed to find the Calix Puritatis if we can't even find the castle?'

'Dig?' suggests Max.

'And that won't draw attention to us at all.' I look around at the scores of people picnicking or walking their dogs around the park. From down the base of the hill come the laughter of children in a rustic play area. This place isn't exactly secluded.

Suddenly I spot a familiar figure walking down the pathway from King's School archway.

'It's Ross! Hide!'

'I'm not the one with the problem of being seen,' replies Max. 'You hide!'

We slide down the other side of the mound out of sight and hide behind the trunk of a large beech tree. Out of habit, I ignore the twittering of a group of teenagers looking my way.

The grass tickles my chin as I lie low and try to calm my breathing. The sun's rays warm my back. In fact, it's a little too warm.

'Do you think he saw us?' I look around for Max but he's nowhere to be seen. 'Max? Quit fooling around.'

There's no sign of him. The heat of the day totally blots out the temperature drop of his presence.

'Okay, I get it. You're better at hiding than I am.'

When Max still fails to reappear, my pulse begins to hammer. Maybe he isn't fooling around.

'Max?'

I button my lips and shift further behind my tree when I spot Ross climbing the mound we were just on. He stands atop with his hands on his hips and surveys the ground around him. I notice he pays particular attention to a tall fence on the adjoining mound with a DANGER – KEEP OUT sign on it. I hadn't taken much notice of it since it's shrouded in shrubs and trees and doesn't look level enough to have had a castle built on it.

'Is this your idea of fun and games, Grant?' I hear him mutter. He shakes his head and walks away.

* * *

By the time I arrive home, I've given up on Max rejoining me. Hopefully it was just a faulty transpirition caused by the cathedral and he'll be back tomorrow. Dad is sitting at his desk, gazing at a framed photograph in his hands. By the look on his face I know instinctively he's thinking of Mum. I pull off my boots and dump my rucksack at the bottom of the stairs before backtracking to his door.

Dad's put the photo away and is rubbing his eyes in that mannish I'm-not-really-crying-it's-just-allergies kind of way. I knock and he fumbles with his spectacles, then waves me in.

'Hey, Noa, where've you been?'

'Out.' Telling Dad I told a whopper of a lie to get into someone's home this morning so she could tell me about her murdered twin then trekked all the way to Ely by myself to investigate old myths and rebellious monks are not high on my list of truth priorities.

Spock stretches out on the couch and thumps his tail in greeting at me. I go over to fondle his ears.

'Anywhere specific?' Dad asks. He gets to his feet and picks up an empty coffee cup from his desk. He is obviously not in the mood to be humoured.

'I went to Ely,' I say, opting for the less damaging truth.

Dad stops short on his way out of the door. ' _Ely_? Nice place. Has a great pub down by the river. What prompted a trip there?'

'I wanted to find out more about this medieval guy who visited me last night.'

Dad's eyes widen. 'Medieval? Good gracious, could you even understand what he was saying?'

'It took us a while to figure it all out, but yeah, we got there in the end.'

'"We" being…?'

'Me and Max.'

'Oh.' Dad doesn't look best pleased at the mention of Max.

He heads off towards the kitchen to avoid talking about it any further and Spock and I obediently follow him. See, he doesn't like that I have a male friend who's nineteen and hangs out with me in my bedroom. The fact that Max is a spirit doesn't seem to make any difference. In fact, he blames Max for me not having a clichéd social life like every other teenager, which is so not true. Max is my saving grace, if anything. Or _was_ my saving grace. I wish I could share my concerns over Max's disappearance with Dad, but something tells me I wouldn't have a very sympathetic audience.

In the kitchen I plonk myself down at the table while he washes out his coffee cup.

'You want something to eat?' he asks and I can see he's trying to make an effort.

'Sure.'

'How about a Monte Cristo sandwich?' he asks, naming my favourite.

I still can't summon up much enthusiasm though. I can't help worrying that Max has gone forever and that if I'm ever to see him again I'm going to have to deliver that message to Ross. 'Sounds good.'

Dad takes some bread and slaps some jam and cheese on it. He throws a slice to Spock who wolfs it down so fast it looks like a magic trick.

'You had a call earlier on,' I say, my eye catching the phone on the wall. 'A Mr Preston?'

Dad sends me an uneasy glance. 'Oh. What did you say?'

'I said you were unavailable.' Seeing the uncertainty on his face, I hesitate. 'Was that wrong?'

'No, that's fine,' Dad hurries on, squashing a sandwich into the sandwich press. 'That's great. Thanks.'

I think of his long hours drinking at night and his lie-ins in the morning, and wonder if it's just when he's really missing Mum that his drinking gets worse and affects his work. Or is it when work is most challenging that he misses her most and drinks to blot it out?

'So what did this medieval guy want?' Dad asks.

I can see he's trying really hard to show an interest and my heart softens. Dad doesn't usually like to hear about my message delivery service. He prefers to think it doesn't happen, prefers to think his daughter is normal.

'It's all a bit complicated, really. See, I got another message a couple of days before that. But they've both been for the same person, an archaeologist.'

'That's unusual, isn't it?'

'It is, yes,' I reply. 'The first one was from his business partner, and the second was from this medieval dude wanting to tell him where to find some precious artefact.'

'Sounds intriguing.'

'Hmm.' I hesitate. I don't want to go into the details of Grant's suspected murder and my suspicion of Ross and how I don't want to deliver the second message in case he's responsible. But I do still need to follow up on those suspicions. 'Dad, can I ask you something?'

Dad looks worried for a moment. 'Don't you already know about the birds and the bees?'

'Yeah, not that. They taught us in school. I was wondering if you have a business that's struggling financially and your business partner dies, are you better or worse off?'

Dad looks relieved, even a little amused by the question. But seeing that I'm not laughing, he frowns in concentration as he thinks up a serious answer. 'Worse off, I would think. It depends on if you have a partnership agreement. If you do have some sort of contract drawn up then you and the business won't be liable for any personal debts of the deceased partner. But you wouldn't stand to gain anything either. Does that make sense?'

I turn his words over in my brain and nod slowly. 'Yeah, I think so. And if there _isn't_ a partnership agreement? What if business is bad?'

'If there _isn't_ a partnership agreement then you might have to make up the shortfall on all of his debts, pay back all his creditors with company assets that had belonged to him. And if the business is in trouble, you're bound to have debts. It would also mean the dissolution of the partnership, which, unless there was a partnership agreement stipulating you could carry on by yourself, means the end of the business too.'

I run that against the facts I know about Ross and Grant. If The Big Dig had no partnership agreement, the company would collapse with the death of Grant.

'But what if you wanted to sell the business anyway?' I ask. 'What if the business closing down was a good thing?'

'Selling it is very different to quitting it,' replies Dad. 'For starters, all the company's debts have to be settled, and that can take years to get through all the legal proceedings.'

I think how Grant has been dead only six months and how Ross is already selling. So maybe they did have a partnership agreement set up. But to what advantage? I can feel Ross's motive slowly disintegrating.

'Even if they have a partnership agreement?' I ask.

'Very possibly, especially if the business is in that much financial trouble. Plus, you'd be forced to sell at a time when you might not get what the business is worth.' He frowns at me. 'Why all these questions?'

'It's nothing,' I say with a flap of my hand. 'Just the business partner that I delivered the message to is selling up, and I don't know that I trust him.'

Dad looks uneasy. 'I don't like you going round to strangers' houses if they're not trustworthy.'

'I know. I did have Max and Spock with me though.' I rub Spock around the ears and he licks my arm.

'Hmph,' Dad scoffs as he hands me my toasted Monte Cristo sandwich. 'I'm sure they made a huge difference.'

I ignore his sarcasm. 'And on the surface of things the business partner was actually really friendly.' I don't mention how I suspect someone, like maybe Ross, killed Grant. 'So, let me get this straight. Even if they had a partnership agreement and even though the remaining partner wanted to sell, it would still be difficult?'

'Yup.'

'And there's no loopholes he could benefit from?'

Dad laughs. 'Noa, I don't know. I'm not a lawyer. All that I've told you I know simply because I do investigative work for a law firm, but that's all. I doubt there are any real benefits from a business partner dying.'

'Okay, thanks.'

Crap, there goes Ross's motive for killing Grant. And it pretty much rules out any chance of there being a buyer in the wings too.

The phone rings just as Dad is preparing a second Monte Cristo sandwich for himself. He sucks the jam off his fingers before answering.

'Hello?' Then with a slight grimace, 'Ah, hello, Mr Preston.'

I watch as he cradles the phone between his ear and his shoulder and puts his sandwich in the press.

'I've encountered a slight hitch in my investigation into your missing Renoir. It appears the same painting is hanging in a gallery in Tokyo…' Dad waits patiently for the sandwich to cook and for Mr Preston's reply. '…Unfortunately not. The gallery was able to provide proof of purchase. They've had "Dance by the Seashore" for the best part of eight years…'

Dad cradles his phone again and takes out his sandwich. The smoke alarm goes off and I quickly pull over a chair to stand on and switch it off.

Dad winks his thanks at me. 'It's not a fake. They can trace its history pretty much back to Renoir himself… I know how that sounds. I'm sorry –' Dad holds the phone away from his ear and I can hear Mr Preston shouting. 'Unless he painted two of them, then I'm afraid your stolen Renoir is a fake,' Dad says once his client has finished.

But Mr Preston is far from finished. I can hear the man yelling himself hoarse about insurance. I'm not surprised Dad was loath to continue with this case. He gestures to the phone and shoos me out of the kitchen so he can have some privacy.

I go reluctantly. I want to hear more about Mr Preston's stolen fake Renoir. They can't be very well informed thieves if they stole a fake. Unless, of course, Mr Preston has fiddled the whole theft for insurance money, not realising that his painting was, in fact, fake.

In my bedroom, I'm left with no other distractions apart from Spock wanting treats. I sit on my bed to finish my sandwich and I chew without tasting. My mind turns back to Max. Is this it?

* * *

Copyright © H.R. Aidan, 2017


	8. False Profession

**8 – FALSE PROFESSION**

* * *

Roll on Wednesday, I'm sitting in my bedroom eating my lunch, and there's still no sign of Max. I haven't seen him since Ely when we hid from Ross. Is it really down to me not delivering Scrydan's message that is keeping him away? It's not like it's been weeks since I received it. In fact, I'm sure I've taken longer over previous messages and Max has stuck around. Maybe us purposefully avoiding the person I'm supposed to deliver the message to was the final straw for the 'wisers', who are the spirits who form a sort of council that monitors the spiritual activity that comes my way. I don't know why but I've always thought of them as an ancient Roman senate, all overly serious men wearing flowing white togas. I don't know how true that image is, but it serves its purpose. Max is always getting into trouble with them for interfering with the mortal world – usually to get me out of a tight spot. I've never heard of the wisers ever congratulating or rewarding or being in any way, shape or form, positive. Haven't they heard of positivity breeding positivity?

With Spock sitting like a good dog waiting for treats, I eat my sandwich on my bed, mindlessly throwing him a titbit every now and then. Chills sweep over my arms, goose over my grave, and my hopes shoot up. It has to be Max, it can't be anyone else. I can't receive more messages until the last one has been delivered.

Max steps into vision, but he is even more faded than at the cathedral.

'Goodness, are you okay?' I exclaim.

Max looks sombre. 'No. The wisers are getting impatient, Noa. You have to deliver Scrydan's message to Ross.'

I sigh in frustration. This isn't a new problem but it never becomes any easier. 'Don't they see I can't though? Surely they must understand what is at stake here?'

'That's not their concern,' Max replies. 'They just run the messenger service.' He comes and sits on my bed and leans forward intently. His eyes search mine beseechingly. 'You need to tell Ross if I'm to keep visiting you.'

I pout and look away. 'We need to find the Calix Puritatis before Ross though,' I mumble.

'Then what are you doing sitting around here?'

'Have you got any better ideas?' I ask sarcastically. I don't mean to be, but it just comes out like that when our – our whatever we have becomes threatened.

'What about that Cambridge professor. What was his name?' Max asks.

'Professor Melnik?'

'Yes, he seems to know an awful lot about Scrydan. Why don't we pay him a visit?'

'But we don't –' I stop myself from saying we don't know how to find him – that kind of defeatist attitude isn't helpful – and wrack my brain for a solution. 'He was doing a talk at Ely Museum. I bet we could find his contact details through them.'

I put the remains of my Monte Cristo sandwich aside and reach for my laptop. Spock licks his lips, two strings of drool dangling. Max looks disgusted.

'Honestly, I don't know how you can eat such a thing.'

'It's delicious, you should try it.'

Max sniffs in distaste. 'Not even if I was able to, thank you very much.'

I drum my fingers on my knee as I wait for my computer to load. 'Spock has better taste than you.'

'Spock eats cow poo. I'd hardly call that tasteful.'

I pause in thought. 'What did you think of him?'

'Who, Spock? Do you really want to know?'

'No, doofus. Professor Melnik.'

'He seemed okay,' says Max. 'Very knowledgeable.'

'Hmm,' I say, non-commitally. 'But is he willing to share that knowledge, I wonder?'

'He seemed willing enough at the cathedral. He approached you, didn't he?'

'Yeah, but…'

'But what?'

I hesitate before going on. I'm still not sure if it was my imagination or not. But experience has taught me to trust my gut. 'I don't know that I trust him. Did you notice anything when I asked if he knew Grant Fitzpatrick?'

'No.'

'Maybe it was my imagination then. I just got the impression he was lying when he said he didn't know him.'

'Why would he lie?' Max asks.

I shrug and turn back to my computer. 'I don't know. Look, the museum doesn't give contact details, but they do say what college he works at in Cambridge. If we visit the college they should be able to help us, right?'

* * *

The Cambridge college where Professor Melnik is reputed to work is deserted of students, presumably on their summer holidays. There are only a few, reading on the grass beside the River Cam, the sun on their backs.

I slip past the porter's house and, following the signs for the academic offices, creep up the ancient stairwell to Melnik's rooms. The building feels impossibly old and Max has a look of nostalgia on his face.

'I was here only eight months when I had my accident,' he says with a sigh, trailing a hand over the oak banister.

'What were you studying?'

'Anthropology.' He smiles. 'I think it's why I was chosen to do this; destined to observe the social evolution of Man.'

'Or of Woman.'

Max grins and follows me onto the first floor landing.

* * *

Professor Melnik answers his door and understandably looks rather shocked at my appearance.

'Noa? This – this is unexpected.'

I put on my ignorant schoolgirl face and beam at him. 'Yeah, I know. I was just wondering if you could help me with my school project some more.'

It's a little awkward as he just stares at me with those crystalline blue eyes, not inviting me in. Finally, he blinks, and ushers me in. Max slips in before the door is closed (he really doesn't like going through things) and goes to look out of the open lead-paned window. He wears a nostalgic smile as cooing pigeons in the eaves above the window take flight in a flutter of flapping feathers.

Professor Melnik looks alarmed at the disturbance. He's sweating – which perhaps isn't so surprising given it's a hot summer afternoon – but he's also curiously fidgety. He fumbles to tidy away some paperwork on his desk. It's stuffed away before I can read any of it, but he drops a brown leather-bound book on the floor that lands in a puff of dust. In gold print the title reads _Medieval Ely_. He shoves it away on the groaning bookshelf before I can ask about it.

'I'm not sure what else I can possibly add to our conversation this morning. And I have a –'

I'm prepared for excuses, but when a knock on the door interrupts him, I'm surprised to find his excuse might be genuine. An East Asian boy stands in the doorway, his arms piled with books.

'Professor Melnik? I've found all the titles you asked for.'

The professor looks torn and more than a little edgy. 'Just a second, Sunan. Noa, I'm terribly sorry you've gone to such trouble, but I don't think there's anything more I can say that could possibly help your school project.'

'He's lying,' Max says helpfully.

I get the same feeling. 'Could you answer just a few questions for me then? Stuff I'm a little confused about? Maybe recommend some library books to look up? I can wait if you're busy right now.'

Professor Melnik wavers between me and Sunan, who is buckling under the heavy books. He sighs impatiently and goes to help the boy. 'Okay, just wait here. Sunan, come, let's put these in the Junior Common Room, and I'll get you started.' He ushers Sunan back into the corridor and glances back at me, his expression filled with doubt. 'Just wait here.'

I smile like a naïve schoolgirl and nod happily. I listen to Professor Melnik and his student's footsteps disappearing down the corridor, then jump into action.

* * *

I push the door gently closed then rush back to Melnik's desk.

'What are you looking for?' Max says, coming over to help.

I flick through the papers hastily piled up and try the drawers. 'I don't know yet, but he's hiding something.' It's difficult to speed read anything because Professor Melnik's handwriting is so spidery and squiggly, probably because of his shaky hands.

I slide out the _Medieval Ely_ book from the bookshelf and open it up. It smells musty and old. On the stained title page there is an old inscription written in faded blue ink from a fountain pen.

" _To dearest Tadeusz, all my love, Phoebe_."

The name makes me pause as I struggle to place it. It's not a common name, but I've heard it recently. I gasp.

'What?' Max demands.

'This inscription here,' I say, jabbing the page with my finger. '" _To dearest Tadeusz, all my love, Phoebe_." What are the odds that's Phoebe Fitzpatrick, Grant's mother!'

Max stares at me. 'I don't know. Fifty-to-one? It's a bit of a big leap, isn't it?'

'Not when you think how she was also an historian here at Cambridge.'

Max nods slowly as he comes round to my way of thinking. 'So, he really isn't telling us everything, is he? It's a very intimate note, isn't it?' he says, studying the inscription closer. 'Do you think they were romantically involved?'

'Grant's father did die when he and Jules were very young.'

'And their mother was very beautiful,' adds Max. 'It seems doubtful she'd have remained single for the rest of her life.'

We nearly jump out of our skins as the tolling of the clock tower right next to the office strikes. It reminds me time is against us. I start leafing through more paperwork on the professor's desk, aware he could return at any moment. I have no idea where the Junior Common Room is.

'Keep a look out, will you?' I say without looking up.

Max doesn't reply and when I do look up, he's nowhere to be found. A warm gust of summer wind swirls through the open window.

'Max?'

Chuntering, I hurry to the door to peep into the dark corridor to see if he's already taken up look out duties, but he's gone. At the back of my mind, I'm pretty sure I know what the story is here, but I have no time to sit and feel sorry for myself. I'm going to have to carry on this mission myself. I can't worry about Max's disappearance just yet.

I return to Professor Melnik's desk. There's nothing much that tells me anything about him. I'm about to put _Medieval Ely_ back on the bookshelf where I found it when I notice a tattered paper being used as a bookmark. I turn to the page and scan the text. It's about thirteenth century law – the same topic as his talk at Ely Museum.

The pigeons outside the window flap and coo and I peep out to see the professor hurrying back to the building from across the courtyard. Just as I close the book, the bookmark paper catches my eye.

It is, in fact, an old magazine or newspaper article, and my eyes immediately snag on the names Scrydan and Simeon.

" _While there is little evidence to support it, some historians believe Scrydan was banished from the cathedral upon Simeon's death. Theories for this range from Scrydan poisoning his superior in a fit of betrayed vengeance to intense loyalty that did not sit well with Simeon's successor, the corrupt custodian Ranulf Flambard. Either way, Scrydan refused to disclose the whereabouts of the Calix Puritatis, which he claimed to have hidden where no worthy man would think to look. However, on his deathbed, Scrydan penned what would become known as the Scrolls of Scrydan, in which he details the precise location of the mythical chalice. Historians and archaeologists have searched endlessly for the Calix Puritatis, but perhaps what they should be doing is looking for the Scrolls of Scrydan…_ "

Footsteps echoing in the corridor interrupt my reading. I want to take the excerpt with me, find out the author, but Professor Melnik will notice it missing. I put the book aside and take a quick photo of the article with my phone. The picture on the page beneath it catches my eye. It shows a skinny old man with a long white beard, holding up a stone with arthritic bony hands in front of a monastery. The caption underneath mentions Simeon, but I don't have time to read on. I slam the book shut and shove it back on the shelf just as Professor Melnik opens the door.

My pulse is racing and I know I'm doing a bad job of looking relaxed. He frowns at me and scans his desk to check for any disturbance. I've done enough snooping in my time to leave things undisturbed.

'Thank you for waiting, Noa. Won't you have a seat?' Professor Melnik gestures to an old uncomfortable-looking wooden chair. He still appears vaguely suspicious of me.

'You know what, I had a couple of minutes to think while you were gone,' I say with an air of nonchalance, 'and to be honest I don't want to take up any more of your time if you've nothing to add to our earlier conversation.'

Professor Melnik swallows, but there is still a wariness in his eyes. 'Nothing, I'm afraid.'

We stand in silence for a moment longer. I wonder why he's not telling me about the Scrolls of Scrydan when he was so forthcoming about it all earlier. It's something to do with Grant Fitzpatrick, I'm sure of it. Why else would he clam up at the mention of his name? But I don't see what the relevance is.

'I'll get going then,' I say, and the professor nods and ushers me out.

'Yes, I think that would be best. We wouldn't want your father worrying about you now.'

* * *

The door closes behind me, leaving me in the dark and narrow corridor. I stare at Professor Melnik's name card on the door, realising why he hasn't wanted to talk to me anymore. He's been doing a bit of his own investigations. Why else would he mention my father?

I look around for Max. He's nowhere to be seen and the air is warm and musty. My heart droops as I get the feeling this really is it until I deliver Scrydan's message. But I desperately need Max to talk things over with, especially now that I know someone has been poking around my business. I must deliver the message.

But if Ross is guilty of murder? Can I potentially give him the means to find the Calix Puritatis and exonerate himself from his crime, all so I can have my spirit buddy back?

* * *

Copyright © H.R. Aidan, 2017


	9. Scrydan's Message

**9 – SCRYDAN'S MESSAGE**

* * *

'Noa! I didn't expect to see you again,' says Ross, opening his front door to me. 'Come on in. Would you like some juice?'

I follow him through to the kitchen at the back, feeling a mixture of guilt and unease. 'Thanks, yeah.'

'And your dog? What's his name again?'

'Spock.'

'Great name. I'm a Star Trek fan myself. Would he like some water?'

I look at him fussing Spock around his ears and my canine companion wags his tail in response. He has no problem trusting Ross. Is this man really capable of murder?

'Thanks. It's a bit hot out there.'

Maybe I'm selfish doing this, but the thought of never seeing Max again is too much to bear. And today, of all days, has taught me how much I rely on his support. I've spent the past couple of days trying to convince myself that life will still go on – it'll just be a bit more normal, but to be honest I wasn't unhappy with my life before. I know I'm a little different – okay, a _lot_ different – but who really wants to follow like a nameless sheep through life? I deliver spirit messages, that's who I am, I can't just stop because I suspect one of the recipients of committing a crime. Grant certainly didn't appear to hold any grudge against Ross, did he? Why should I change the entire course of my life just because I do? Besides, who am I to judge? I certainly can't judge without all the answers, and there's something missing in this puzzle.

So, this morning I decided I would come speak to Ross to try get some answers and decide whether or not to tell him Scrydan's message.

That's what I keep telling myself, anyway.

Ross hands me some juice and puts a bowl down for Spock, who laps noisily.

'So, what can I do for you?' Ross asks, leaning against his kitchen counter. 'Any more messages from Grant for me?' he jokes.

I try to laugh too, but it comes out more of a nervous bleat. 'Um, part of my messenger duties includes following up to check the recipient is okay or that they've done what was asked,' I say. Obviously, it's not, but it's as good an excuse as any to get in the door. In fact, better, because he can't very well contradict me.

'Wow, they've got good customer service in the spirit world. I wish my broadband provider was more like that.' He grins. 'But it's not like I can give them a bad review, is it? Come, let's talk outside.'

* * *

He leads me out the backdoor into the courtyard and we sit in the shade of a high trellis thick with vines separating him from his neighbours.

'I must admit, I used to tire of Grant going on about the Calix Puritatis – seems even death couldn't shut him up.' He smiles to himself, attempts a small laugh and fails. 'But your message has really spurred me into pursuing it.'

'So, you're trying to find it again? Where?' I ask.

'That's the million dollar question,' he replies, wagging his finger. 'The most likely place is Ely Cathedral, where it was last recorded as being. In fact, I've got a bit of funding sorted and a dig is due to begin in a couple of days.'

I'm suddenly gripped with alarm. 'That fast?'

'No time like the present.'

'Do you accept volunteers?' I blurt out.

Ross looks pleased, if a little curious. 'Sure, if you don't mind getting a little dirty. You want to join us?'

I nod frantically. Maybe this is the only way I'll get to the Calix Puritatis before him – if I find it first. 'If you'll have me. I've never worked on a dig before.'

'It's hard work,' he warns, fixing me with a stern eye. 'Working in the hot sun, all your muscles aching, your back sore, your knees bruised from kneeling on them all day long.'

I shrug. 'I don't mind hard work.'

Ross smiles at chinks his glass against mine. 'I'm sure you don't.'

'Why do you want to find the Calix Puritatis?' I ask.

'Are you serious? My best friend sends me a message from beyond the grave about it and you ask why I want to find it?'

'Grant was your best friend?'

'Of course.' Ross looks a little self-conscious. 'I mean, we had our differences, sure, like any friendship. But we've been together since university days.' Ross stares into space, a sad smile on his face then looks down at his hands and bites his lower lip, like he's embarrassed.

To give Ross his due, I can't tell if he's lying. If he is then he's a great actor. Banking on it being the truth, I press on. 'When I googled Grant, I saw he has a twin sister. Did you know her?'

Ross looks up in surprise. 'Jules? Sure.'

He seems uneasy at this question though, not meeting my eye. I notice him twisting a ring on his little finger and I twig.

'Did you date Jules?'

Ross blushes crimson. 'Am I that transparent? Jules and I were engaged. If you thought Grant was charming, you should see Jules. She's practically dripping with charisma.'

I resist the urge to agree. I haven't told him yet that I've already met Jules. 'What went wrong?' I ask.

I wait for him to shut down, tell me I'm being nosy, but he smiles instead, like he's waited a long time to unburden himself.

'Jules may be charming, but…'

'Yes?'

He waves me away. 'You don't want to hear about it. Such a soap opera. And so long ago.'

'I don't mind,' I say with an amiable shrug.

He hesitates a moment before continuing. 'Jules and I didn't see eye to eye on some of the more important things.'

I recall Jules telling me how they had disagreed on how their business should be run, implying Ross had been running things illegally.

'You worked together as well, didn't you?' I say.

Ross laughs, but it's an uneasy laugh and I fear I've overstepped my mark. 'Goodness, I don't know where you dug that up on the Internet, it feels so long ago.' He shakes his head and I can see him reminiscing. 'Arts of the Ancient, we called ourselves. Wow.' He laughs. 'I haven't said that name in a _long_ time.'

'What happened to it?'

'Some things in the past really aren't worth digging up,' Ross says, swallowing the last of his drink and getting up. 'How's your juice?'

I realise I'm not going to get any further with that line of questioning. There's a deep sadness in his eyes, and I can't help but feel bad for him. Jules painted him in such a bad light that she had me convinced Ross was not just a fraudster, but a murderer too. Now, I'm not so sure.

* * *

'What would you do if you found the Calix Puritatis?' I ask, following him back into the kitchen.

'What would I do? Phew, I don't know.' He pauses by the fridge to think. 'I've never really thought about it. The challenge of _finding_ it has always been so monumental that you don't really think beyond that.'

'But what if you did find it? What would you do with it?'

Ross refills our glasses and puts the juice back in the fridge. 'It would have to be sent to a lab to be carbon-dated, of course,' he says, handing me my glass. 'After that… I don't know. I suppose offer it to a museum. It's not really the sort of thing you can keep on your mantelpiece, is it?' He snorts with laughter. 'Unless you're Grant Fitzpatrick, of course. That was the sort of thing he did. He wanted to keep everything he found. He was a terrible hoardster.'

Hearing the genuine fondness in his voice finally convinces me.

'Ross, you're probably going to think I'm crazy – I mean, crazier than you do already.'

Ross's expression switches to concern. 'I don't think you're crazy, Noa. Not at all. I think – I think you're gifted,' he says after a moment's contemplation.

I give a mirthless laugh. 'Ha, my mother used to say that too.'

' _Used_ to?'

I turn away to walk outside again. I'm the worst sort of investigator, I realise. I love asking personal questions, but I hate answering them. 'She died when I was little, in a car accident,' I say over my shoulder. I pause. 'It's the anniversary of her death today, in fact.'

'Oh! I'm so sorry!' Ross gasps. 'That must have been tough.'

I shrug, pretending I don't care, and take my seat. 'Not much I can do about it. I have my dad at least.' Even to my ears my voice sounds doubtful.

Ross perches on his chair and reaches out to hold my hand. 'Does he say you're gifted?' he probes gently. His eyes are soft and searching and I can understand why he and Grant got on so well.

'He just accepts it, I think. He doesn't want to believe I'm crazy.'

Ross gives a sympathetic nod. 'Us men can be funny like that. You're not crazy, Noa, trust me. You're gifted.'

He squeezes my hand and I'm genuinely moved by his support. 'Thanks.' Small though they might be, his kind words give me confidence and I take a deep breath before continuing. 'Have you heard of Scrydan?'

Ross sits back in surprise. 'Of course, he was the keeper of the Calix Puritatis back in medieval times.'

'Do you think he was a good guy?'

Ross looks puzzled. 'That's difficult to say. I mean, he was a monk, so you'd think he was a pretty good guy.'

'But not all monks were good back then,' I argue.

'No, you're right. I don't know, to be completely honest. There is very literature on him and much of it is speculation or contradictory. Why do you ask?'

I brace myself. 'Well, you know how Grant visited me? So did Scrydan, just a few days ago.' That's it, I have to deliver the message now. And if he did murder Grant, I might be about to indirectly absolve him of his sins.

Ross nearly falls off his chair. ' _Scrydan_ visited you? Are you serious?'

'Deadly.'

'Oh my goodness, what did he say?' Ross's eyes are so big they look like they're about to pop out of their sockets.

'That's the thing, it doesn't make sense. But the message was for you.'

Ross spills his drink all over himself, but doesn't appear to notice. 'You're serious?'

'Yeah.'

'What did he say?' he whispers, like a child absorbed in a parent's ghost story.

'It was in Latin, but translated it's "Polaris pivots the track to divination, And transcends the spirit of man. Thou sup'st the wine of infinity, Before lips of humility gain salvation."'

I've repeated it to myself so often, I know it off by heart. Ross stares at me, wide-eyed. He must surely think I'm crackers.

'Wait here,' he says and jumps up. He rushes back into the house (probably to ring the asylum or to find a straitjacket for me).

Moments later, he reappears carrying a pad of paper and a pen. 'Okay. Say that again. "Polaris pivots the track to divination…"'

I repeat the riddle slowly and he scribbles it down. He rereads it, chewing his pen nervously.

'At last!'

I jump a foot in the air as Max suddenly appears.

'Do you have any idea how long I've been trying to get back to you?' he chides me.

I'm so relieved I want to hug him and tell him how much I've missed him. But obviously I can't so I reach out a subtle hand and feel the coolness of him squeezing it in return.

'So you've told him?' he asks.

I nod. Ross is too absorbed in the riddle to notice. He looks up and gestures to his arms.

'This is giving me goosebumps,' he laughs. 'I think a ghost just walked over my grave.'

I give a diluted laugh. That'll be Max's presence that has done that. 'Does any of that make sense to you?' I ask.

He pauses, tapping his pen against his lips as he reads, then nods. 'I think so. Polaris is commonly known as the Pole Star or the North Star. If you think of a compass dial, it pivots on the central spindle, doesn't it? Divination could mean anything from divine inspiration to a place of divinity. So, he's saying the way to the Divine is to follow the compass north. "And transcends the spirit of man…"' He trails off again as he thinks about the second line.

'How did he get that so easily?' says Max indignantly. 'We battled for hours trying to figure out that line.'

'It's directions to the Calix Puritatis,' I say to Ross.

'What? Wait, why are you helping him?' Max demands.

'How can you tell?' Ross asks.

'We've had a while to figure it out. It was just the first line we couldn't get.'

Ross narrows his eyes at me. 'Who's "we"?'

'Me, I mean.'

Max sniffs. 'Sometimes I feel you exclude me just to hurt me.'

I give him a heavy-lidded look.

'So the Calix Puritatis is north?' says Ross. 'North where?' His eyes light up before I can suggest anything. 'Ely! Ely Cathedral? We were right! It _is_ there!' He's so excited he jumps to his feet and whoops. Spock growls at him in my defence. 'If it was stolen and burnt in the inn fire by those monks, he would have said south,' Ross carries on breathlessly. 'Guildford is south, so it couldn't have been destroyed! Oh, Noa! You don't know what this means.'

He wraps me in a bear hug and lifts me off my feet. I want to be happy for him, but I can't help but feel I might have just provided him with a Get Into Heaven Free card.

* * *

Copyright © H.R. Aidan, 2017


	10. Con Artist

**10 – CON ARTIST**

* * *

The house is quiet when I return home for a late lunch.

'Dad?' I call out.

No answer.

Maybe he's out working on Mr Preston's case. I push his office door open and then I see him. He's passed out on the couch, snoring softly. Spock rushes over, his claws clicking on the floorboards and licks his face. Dad barely stirs. Spock's windmill tail catches the empty gin bottle on the side table and it falls onto the rug with a thud and rolls under the couch. My hackles instinctively rise.

Then I notice for the first time Dad's favourite photograph of Mum clasped to his heart and my anger dissipates. Today is the anniversary of her death. Dad's face is tired, cracks around his eyes make him look like an old man. His tight curly hair, once a great black Afro that he wore with pride when he was younger is thinning and grey.

Standing there, looking at him, I wonder what Mum would look like today if she was still around. Would she be going grey, would her beauty have faded? I can't imagine so.

I see the stains on Dad's cheeks and appreciate just how much he must miss her.

'Yeah, me too,' I murmur.

I jump as the desk telephone trills. Dad doesn't stir and the answerphone clicks in.

'Hello, this is a message for Mr Drury,' says a woman with a grandmotherly strain to her voice. 'It's Mrs Grosvenor-Hughes here. We had an appointment to discuss the fake Renoir I'd been sold… I have in my diary two o'clock, but… maybe I got it wrong.'

Without thinking twice, I snatch up the phone. 'Hello, Mrs Grosvenor-Hughes? Sorry you got the answerphone there. I'm Noa, Mr Drury's assistant.'

'Oh! Hello! There is someone there!' Mrs Grosvenor-Hughes sounds delighted to be talking to a real person. 'Is Mr Drury running late?'

'I'm afraid so…' I glance at Dad still snoring peacefully. 'In fact, he's been held up with another client. He's asked me to extend his apologies.'

'Oh, that is a pity.' She sounds genuinely disappointed. 'I had Mr Barlow lay out tea and scones especially.'

My stomach rumbles at the thought and I wonder if Dad would mind if I went in his place.

'Anyway, perhaps it's just as well,' says Mrs Grosvenor-Hughes. 'I'm not sure I'd be much help to him with his investigations. It's true I bought my Renoir – or fake Renoir as I found out – from the same dealer as his other client – what was his name?'

'Mr Preston?' I take a wild guess.

'That's right. We were obviously diddled by the same person. But Sam Keyes has been dead a good few years now, as I understand. Killed in a road accident in Africa somewhere. Most unfortunate.' Mrs Grosvenor-Hughes tuts. 'For Sam, that is,' she hurries on. 'Most unfortunate for Sam.'

'I'm sorry to hear that,' I reply, thinking Mrs Grosvenor-Hughes is perhaps thinking more about her own misfortune than Sam Keyes's. 'And for your misfortune too. I'll pass on the message to my – I mean to Mr Drury.'

''Thank you, dear. I'm sorry I couldn't be more helpful to his investigations – what, Mr Barlow?' There is the sound of the receiver being covered and muffled voices. 'Hello, are you still there?'

'Yes, I'm here, Mrs Grosvenor-Hughes.'

'Mr Barlow has suggested you tell Mr Drury to look for the company whom I hired as a third-party authenticator of the painting. Silly me, I allowed Sam to recommend them. I ought to have known they were in the con together, but at the time I honestly thought they were being helpful. So charming, you wouldn't think'd harm a fly.'

'Do you remember the name of the company?' I ask.

'Now, let me think. It's closed down now, I believe. They did the authentication at least six years ago. That was another dead end we met during our own investigations. What was it called, Mr Barlow?' Again there is a muffled voice in the background. 'Something about the very old… Ancient World of Art, maybe?'

I write it down on a Post-it note on Dad's desk.

'No, no! I remember now!' Mrs Grosvenor-Hughes exclaims. 'Arts of the Ancient! That's it!'

My pen tears through the pad in my surprise. 'Are-are you sure?'

'Oh, yes. I remember very clearly now. Arts of the Ancient, that was it.'

'Riiiiight,' I say slowly, trying to tame the wild lashings of my imaginations. 'Okay, well, I'll pass that on to Da– I mean, Mr Drury. Thanks for your help, Mrs Grosvenor-Hughes, and I'm sorry Mr Drury wasn't able to make your appointment. I'm sure he'll be in touch.'

We call off and I steady myself against the desk. What have I done? If it's the same Arts of the Ancient that Ross, Grant and Jules ran – and since Jules implied Ross had been doing dodgy deals – this could have been one of them. In which case, I've just told him the way to absolve his sins.

But he seemed so nice! So genuine! I realise with a pang of bitterness that that was what con artists are so good at. I've been had. And if he was capable of fraud on this scale, could he also be capable of murder?

'Oh dear, Spock,' I say mindlessly. 'What have I done?'

Copyright © H.R. Aidan, 2017

 **AUTHOR'S NOTE: Hello everybody and thanks for reading this far! A short chapter today, but we're just over the halfway mark and as ever I'm eager for your input. Even the smallest of feedback can make a huge difference to my confidence and also to the overall quality of the story. So don't be shy! Massive thanks to those who have already left reviews. I'd love to hear from more of you about how you think the story is going. Ciao for now. H.R. Aidan**


	11. Digging For Clues

**11 – DIGGING FOR CLUES**

* * *

A couple of days later, Max, Spock and I wander across Cherry Hill to where the huge mound has been cordoned off. Great piles of earth dug up from trenches dot the excavation site. People in dirty jeans are scurrying around looking busy while the usual dog-walkers look on curiously.

Someone directs me in the vague direction of Ross and I find him mulling over a dirty piece of pottery with someone.

'Noa!' he exclaims when he sees me. 'I was wondering if you would join us.'

'No time like the present,' I say with a shrug. I can't quite meet his eye.

'Ha ha. We deal mostly in the past here though. Are you ready for some digging?'

You have no idea, I want to tell him. 'Sure.'

'Great. Louise can take you to get kitted out with some tools, then you can come join me at Trench 3 over there.'

Louise, tousled blonde hair tied back with a handkerchief frowns at Spock. 'What about the dog? We can't have dogs on the dig.'

'Spock is a champion digger,' I tell her defensively.

'Louise is right, I'm afraid,' says Ross. 'We can't have him digging up and damaging artefacts. Will he be all right tied up under a tree?'

I look at Spock, who is wagging his tail and straining against his collar to join in with the excavating. 'I suppose he'll have to be.' I feel guilty for bringing him out here now. I stupidly thought it would be a nice little adventure for him.

'I'll keep him company,' says Max and I send him a grateful smile. I know he and Spock don't like each other very much.

* * *

Hot and dusty with no shade from the glaring sun, and sharp stones cutting into my knees, I chip away at Trench 3's wall. Ross is a few feet away, diligently chiselling away at his patch.

'Boy, would Grant have loved to see this day,' he says.

'It's only because of him that we're here,' I say.

'Very true. I bet he's here with us right now. In spirit, I mean.'

'Just me, sunshine, just me,' says Max, sitting on the side of the trench and swinging his booted legs back and forth.

'You must miss him.' I watch discreetly for his reaction, wondering if he really is a con artist.

'Every day,' he says, biting his lip. 'He was by no means perfect, but he was my best friend.'

Max snorts. 'Some best friend you were.'

'He obviously thought the same about you to come back especially to give you that message,' I say.

Ross shakes his head and pauses in his digging, but doesn't appear guilty or uneasy by my comment. 'Poor guy, I just wish I knew what the problem had been. If he was feeling down, why hadn't he come to me? I just can't bear to think of him struggling so much that he felt he had to take his own life. Instead, I was off partying in Malaga.'

'You weren't here when he died?' I exclaim.

'No.' Ross looks surprised by my outburst. 'I was in Spain looking at an eleventh century Moorish fort… and having a holiday.'

'Is that an alibi I perceive?' says Max, raising an eyebrow.

I want to knock my head against the hard earth of the trench wall in frustration. I have failed to establish one of the first things of investigating a case. I was so caught up in finding a motive for Ross to kill Grant that I forgot to check his alibi. _But_ , my defence system kicks, Grant was poisoned. Couldn't he have given him some slow-working poison then gone to Spain?

'How long were you away for?' I ask.

'Ten days. I was supposed to be gone three weeks, but I came home as soon as I heard.'

Even with slow-working poison, I'd say Ross's alibi is strong. In a way, I'm relieved. It means he has no sins to absolve – at least no murderous sins, I still haven't cleared him of fraud in his dealings with Arts of the Ancient. But who else would want Grant dead? I rule out Jules. She had problems with her brother, sure, but they were twins. Twins don't kill each other, not literally. If Ross was Grant's best friend, perhaps he is the best person to know if someone had a grudge against him.

'Are you certain he killed himself?' I ask, casually turning back to my work.

'Well… sure.' Ross is taken aback at my suggestion. Uncertain, even. 'I mean that's what they said. I had my doubts, of course, but the police would know, wouldn't they? They found a note. Why? Don't you think so?'

I chew my lower lip. I can't bring myself to tell him the truth. Who knows what can of worms that will open up? 'I don't know,' I mumble. 'He just didn't seem the suicidal type.'

'I know what you mean,' agrees Ross. 'But wouldn't he have told you if he'd been murdered or not?'

'Not necessarily. There's only so much they're permitted to say. And yours was the message he chose.'

Ross sits back on his haunches and wipes his brow in resignation, leaving a dirty mark across his forehead. 'Then I guess he must have committed suicide. The Calix Puritatis is important, sure, but getting back at your killer would top the list, don't you think?'

'Yeah.' Unless, of course, finding the Calix Puritatis _is_ a way of getting back at his killer. Had he been in competition with another archaeologist? Before I can pursue this line of thought, my chisel hits metal. I use a brush to clean it. I can't help it, but my heart starts to pound and my hand trembles. Could I really have found the legendary chalice?

'You got something?' Ross says, leaning over. 'Let's have a look.'

Max also comes over to look and his nearness brings a welcome coolness to the trench. Using a pick, Ross eases the metal free from the hard-packed earth. It's small, diamond-shaped and flat. My heart plummets.

Ross beams at me. 'Well done. You've just found yourself an arrowhead.'

'An arrowhead?'

'Yup. Could be stone age, bronze age, or Roman.'

Even though it isn't the Calix Puritatis I can't stop the bubbles of wonder and excitement that rise up in me. 'Seriously?'

'This one's Roman, I'd say,' says Ross, looking incredibly calm. 'See, it's made of iron. Earlier arrowheads tended to be bone or stone or even quartz.' He grins at my gobsmacked expression. 'You can keep this if you like, your first find.'

'Are you sure?' I ask. 'Won't a museum want it?'

Ross laughs. 'Arrowheads are kinda common. Doesn't make it any less special though,' he adds quickly. 'Just think about how your arrowhead came to be here. Think about the person it belonged to, maybe a soldier, an archer. Looks at the marks on the sides, probably made by a blacksmith in his forge.'

I turn the tiny piece of iron in my fingers, catching the sun, noticing the tiny tool marks from when it was manufactured. I wonder who the person was who owned it – the archer. Did he have a family? A sense of humour? Silly phobias? Holding this common link, he ceases to be an obscure statistic from history and suddenly becomes a person, with a personality with motive and cause. For a moment, I forget about the true reason I'm here. I know I get to see really old people who come from different eras to pass on messages, but this is different. Here, I'm holding something tangible, something that someone else would have held two thousand years ago.

* * *

We've just stopped for a break when a familiar figure appears above us, blocking out the sun.

'Professor Melnik!' Ross cries in delight and vaults out of the trench to greet him. 'How marvellous to see you.'

'Hello, dear boy – oh, and Miss Drury,' he says, catching sight of me.

'Hello, Professor Melnik,' I say with a wan smile, letting him know that I know he isn't pleased to see me.

'I suppose I shouldn't be surprised you're here, really,' he says, recovering his composure. 'I must say, you are a very dedicated student.'

'You two know each other?' asks Ross.

'Yes, I filled in some details for Noa's school project. How's that going?'

'School project?' Ross looks confused.

'Yes, school project,' I say, giving him a meaningful look. 'On Scrydan and the Calix Puritatis. It's going well, thanks.'

Ross quickly catches on and nods emphatically. 'Of course.'

'And how is the dig progressing?' asks Professor Melnik. 'I confess to being surprised that you were excavating here again. Have you found new evidence?'

'Well…' Ross begins reluctantly.

I look at him, horrified that he's going to tell Melnik about Grant and Scrydan's visits and catch his eye.

'We found a text… um, in the archives,' Ross says, 'supposedly written by Scrydan.' He gives me a look, like he's asking permission to tell the professor the riddle.

I look at Professor Melnik. Ross has certainly got his attention. And maybe it's not such a bad thing. Maybe he could shed some light on the riddle.

'Don't tell him, Noa,' says Max through gritted teeth. 'I don't trust him one bit.'

Before I can intervene though, Ross is already telling him.

'No!' exclaims Max, clutching his curls.

Professor Melnik takes a moment to translate the riddle in his mind. 'The location of the Calix Puritatis? You found the Scrolls of Scrydan?' His voice rises with excitement.

'It's not a hundred percent that Scrydan really said that, so probably not,' I butt in.

Ross looks confused, but plays along. 'Er, yeah. Nothing's confirmed. Um…'

'But you must be fairly certain to start a new dig? Where is it? Where is the text?' the professor urges.

'I… er, don't have it here.' Ross really needs to practice his lying skills.

'What do you mean you don't have it here? Where is it?' Professor Melnik is beginning to sound desperate.

'It's destroyed,' I say. 'At least the original is, when they were making room for more archives. A whole lot of stuff had to be shredded. It was just scribbled on a piece of writing pad.' There, Ross could learn a trick or two from me.

'So, how do you know it relates to the Calix Puritatis?' Professor Melnik asks. 'How do you know Scrydan was the original scribe?'

He's got me there, but luckily Ross is on the case. 'We don't. It's all speculation, really. It was amongst a load of files on the cathedral. So we just figure it was related.'

Professor Melnik looks less than convinced. '" _Polaris pivots the track to divination; And transcends the spirit of man; Thou sup'st the wine of infinity; Before lips of humility gain salvation_ …" Yes, I can see why…' Slowly he nods, then looks at his watch. 'I must dash. I only stopped by to see how you were getting on, Ross. Um… best of luck. I must be off now. Good-goodbye, Nola.' He leaves as quickly as he arrived, looking a little shaken.

'Noa, thank you very much,' I correct him but he's out of earshot. 'Bye, Professor Melnik.'

'Why didn't you want me to tell him?' Ross asks, once he's gone.

'Gut instinct,' I reply, climbing out of the trench to watch Professor Melnik hurrying away. 'I don't trust him.'

'You sound like Grant,' Ross laughs. 'He didn't think much of him either, especially not after the professor wrote that paper rejecting Grant's theories on medieval Britain and caused our patrons to pull their funding.'

Could it have been a deeper dislike though, I wonder? Something more personal? 'Did you know Professor Melnik and Phoebe Fitzpatrick were romantically involved?'

Ross looks shocked. 'What?'

'Yeah, exactly. There's a lot more that he's not letting on about.'

* * *

Break over, we all get back to work in Trench 3. As the midday sun beats down sweat trickles down my temples and soaks my hair. My eyes sting from the dust and blisters are developing on my palms. I don't feel great and I daren't look at my reflection. Puffing out my cheeks I stop for a moment just to ease the ache in my back. I feel a cool relief on my brow and look up to see Max leaning over the trench and putting his hand on my forehead.

'Be still my beating heart,' he says dramatically, putting a fist to his chest.

I bite my lip to keep from laughing. I must look a sight.

'What sort of stuff did Arts of the Ancient do?' I ask Ross.

'Anything and everything,' he puffs. He also looks pretty mucky, but somehow it suits him. He certainly has more stamina than me and he keeps on chipping away. 'When we could get funding we'd do bigger digs, but most of the time it was finding bits and pieces like your arrowhead and selling them.'

'Did you deal in art? Like paintings and stuff?'

'Oh that, yeah.' Ross doesn't flinch. 'To begin with. Not that I had anything to do with it. I couldn't tell a da Vinci from a van Gogh. That was more Jules's domain. We stopped that side of things when she left.'

'Ross, can you have a look at this.' We're interrupted by Louise, her hair looking dirtier and more tousled than this morning.

Max pouts at me. 'Well, that rules him out of scamming Mrs Grosvenor-Hughes then.'

Which leaves only Jules and Grant, and Jules _was_ the painting expert.

'It must be ten years since Jules left,' says Ross resuming his work. He shakes his head and chuckles. 'Gosh, how time flies when you're having fun. How things change.'

I glance across at Max to see if he's clocked the same thing I have.

' _Ten_ years?' he says in surprise. 'So, if Mrs Grosvenor-Hughes had her painting authenticated only _six_ years ago, and Ross knows nothing about paintings that means Grant was the rotten egg at Arts of the Ancient.'

I gulp.

'Why do you ask?' Ross pauses to wipe a dirty glove across his brow and look my way.

I shrug and fiddle with the cap on my water bottle. 'No reason. Just curious.'

But perhaps Ross has got to know me better. He's not fooled. 'Like the same curious you were for your school project?'

I give him an apologetic look. 'I couldn't tell Professor Melnik the truth, could I?'

'But it's not just Scrydan you've been asking about,' Ross counters. 'Why all the questions about Arts of the Ancient?'

'I was curious about Grant, that's all. Why he committed suicide.' I turn back to my patch of trench and hope it will end the conversation, but Ross's not to be dissuaded.

'But you don't even think he committed suicide, do you?' he says. 'Why are you asking all these questions? How do you know Phoebe Fitzpatrick and Professor Melnik were seeing each other?' His eyes narrow at me as he gets into his stride. 'What are you even doing here today? You're not that interested in archaeology, are you?'

'He's got you there,' Max drawls unhelpfully.

'I just have an inquisitive mind,' I say.

Ross crosses his arms and gives me a heavy-lidded stare. 'Yeah,' he scoffs, 'I think we've established that already.'

'I think we should probably leave now, Noa,' Max says. 'Your next homework assignment is to find about a bit more about Grant Fitzpatrick _himself_.'

I think he's probably right.

* * *

Copyright © H.R. Aidan, 2017


	12. Grave Secrets

**12 – GRAVE SECRETS**

* * *

On the train journey home, there's no opportunity for privacy so Max and I are forced to keep our thoughts to ourselves. From the dusty state I'm in and with Spock panting like a marathon runner, I'm already drawing a fair amount of attention to myself. I can't stop thinking about Grant's probable involvement in art fraud. If he is guilty then how on earth – or heaven – did he get to where he is now? Why isn't he burning in hell for scamming thousands of pounds out of people's wallets, nice people like Mrs Grosvenor-Hughes? I recall the name Mrs Grosvenor-Hughes mentioned – Sam Keyes, who died some years ago in a car accident. Could it be that his death wasn't so accidental either? Could he and Grant have been killed by the same person? If so, who? A third fraudster?

By the time the train pulls into Cambridge, I have a plan all set for the rest of the afternoon.

'Where are we going?' Max asks as we weave through the aimless crowds at the station.

'Kings' Hedges,' I mutter, naming a suburb to the north of the city.

Max shudders as someone walks straight through him. 'What's in Kings' Hedges?'

'Grant's house.' I want to check if Grant's killer left any clues behind that the police – who would've been looking at everything as non-suspicious – might have missed.

* * *

I lead the way through an unlocked gate into Grant's Kings' Hedges property. Spock raises a leg against an overgrown honeysuckle shrub. Max looks around anxiously.

The sign on the gate had read The Church House, and now I understand why. It is a converted church by the looks of things, with a stone steeple at the far end and tall Gothic-looking tracery windows along its sides. There is a skip filled with rubble parked in the driveway and only half-completed renovations done to the exterior. I recall Jules saying how Grant had been renovating his home and how it must have contributed to the stress that had resulted in his suicide. Obviously it hadn't, but Jules wasn't to know that, and she wasn't wrong about the first part.

There is no answer when I ring the bell. I knock using the old-fashioned metal knocker and the sound of it hitting the decrepit church door echoes beyond.

I try the handle, but it's locked. Max and I exchange dubious glances

'Do we break in?' he says.

Max knows I can unpick any lock. I can't say I've ever had reason to ply my skills to a church lock before, but I can't see it being too much of a challenge. Even so, I don't like the idea of breaking into a holy place.

'Let's take a look around first. There may be an unlatched window or something somewhere.'

* * *

My phone beeps as we make our way around the side of the converted church-house and I find a text from Jules, of all people.

 **Hi Noa, thought you might like to know I've got a bunch of photos together to help with your project.**

'Gosh, I'd forgotten about those,' says Max, reading over my shoulder. 'Should we go now?'

I shake my head. Even though I got a chance to clean up a little at the station, I still look pretty rough and I don't fancy going to see Jules looking like I do. 'Later. Let's finish what we came here for first.'

Around the corner we stop in surprise to survey the sight that greets us.

'Wow, he was really getting stuck into the landscaping,' says Max.

He's right. The garden is dug up all over the place. We walk along the edge of the building, avoiding the trenches that have been dug along the building's width.

I'm looking for signs of an unlatched window, but they're all secured shut.

'Looks like he was replacing pipes or something. These are too deep to be flowerbeds,' Max says.

'Bearing in mind this used to be a church, he should have been more careful about where he dug,' I remark. 'There could easily have been a cemetery here before.'

Max shudders at the thought and he makes me smile. Max is the only ghost I know who gets freaked out by dead people.

At the back door, there are still traces of yellow police tape caught in the hinges, evidence of the activity surrounding Grant's death.

I knock on the back door, ever hopeful. Contrary to what you might think I don't particularly like breaking and entering, even if it is for the greater good. There's no answer, but then to my surprise I hear a movement from within. Spock does too and he barks manically, tail wagging, his nose to the gap between the door and the stone threshold.

There's no letterbox to peer through so I cup my hands to the keyhole and yell through.

'Hello? Anyone home?'

I can't hear anything, but Spock obviously can. He barks, ear pricked, backside up in the air.

'Do you want me to check it out first?' Max offers.

But before I can reply, a voice calls out, 'Hey, whatcha doin'?' Peering over the fence is an elderly lady.

'Blast,' says Max in annoyance.

'H-hello,' I say, wrong-footed for a moment.

The woman pulls herself up the fence, clinging to the pickets, to get a better view of me. 'If you're looking for Mr Fizzpatrick, you're no gonna find 'im.'

'No, I know, thank you. He passed away. I was just –'

Again, there's a shuffling noise from within. Spock barks again.

'Is there someone staying here?' I ask the neighbour. 'I thought I heard someone inside.'

'Pigeons, I imagine. Mr Fizzpatrick had a real time of it tryin' to rid the steeple of 'em. What you want here?'

'Say you're here to pick up some of his stuff but forgot your keys,' Max says.

'I was picking up some stuff for – er – Jules, but I forgot my keys–'

'More stuff?' the old lady exclaims in disapproval. 'Blimey, I thought they'd finished all that – all those trucks revvin' and beepin' day and night. 'is estate agent seemed to think it'd been cleared. "Just checkin' all's in order, Mrs Glover" he tells me the other day when I catch 'im snoopin' about the same as you. Soon I'll be 'avin' people lookin' over my fence pokin' their noses in where they don't belong, wantin' to know who they'll be livin' nextdoor to when they buy Mr Fizzpatrick's 'ome. Only been a couple of years since they were last here, when Mr Fizzpatrick bought it.'

I puzzle over her words. I don't recall seeing a For Sale sign by the gate. 'His _estate agent_ was here?' I ask.

'That's right,' Mrs Glover says with a sniff. 'Posh geezer. Dressed like he was goin' to the polo at the Raj, if you know what I mean, in his white linen suit and panama 'at.'

'Sounds like my grandfather,' Max says with a shudder. 'Ask her if he was twirling a cane with an ivory handle in the shape of a bird's skull.'

'Okay, well, thanks,' I say awkwardly to Mrs Glover.

But she doesn't appear in a rush to leave any time soon, making it impossible for me to break in.

'You best be off if you've not got your keys then,' she says.

She's got me cornered. I just want a peek inside, to see if there's the smallest of hints as to whom Grant's murderer might be. I don't want to make trouble.

'I'll have a quick whizz through,' says Max. He puffs out his cheeks and rolls his shoulders, cricking his neck like he's about to start a run-up for the triple jump. 'See you at the front.'

He vanishes through the door, making Spock stop barking and turn his head sideways in puzzlement. He whines and puts his tail between his legs.

* * *

I bid Mrs Glover farewell with a good-natured wave and make my way around the house again, this time going the other side. I stop out of sight to look once more at Grant's landscaping attempts. They really are very peculiar. Trenches dug around the house but also away from the house. Was he digging foundations to extend the building? I look in the one ditch. It's muddy and filled part way with rainwater. I spot a familiar-looking trowel half-buried in the grass beside it.

With a gasp, I look around at all the other trenches as realisation hits me. I hurry to the front where Max is waiting for me.

'Only pigeons inside,' he says. 'Scared one so bad it pooped itself.' He looks pleased with himself but frowns when I don't laugh. 'What's wrong?'

'Max, Grant wasn't landscaping or putting down pipes. He was _excavating_.'

'You mean he really was digging up graves?' he says in horror. 'Oh, the cheek of him.'

'No, silly. Was there anything inside? Did you spot anything?'

'Not even a fingerprint. The whole place has been cleaned out. Why would Grant be excavating his own home?'

I pause to think for a moment. 'To find the Calix Puritatis, I imagine,' I say at last.

'But isn't that too much of a coincidence? Deciding the artefact you've spent your entire life searching for is actually buried at your home?'

'Weren't you listening to Mrs Glover? She said it's only been a couple of years since he moved in. What if he suspected the chalice was here so bought the place in order to excavate it?'

'" _Polaris pivots the track to divination; And transcends the spirit of man; Thou sup'st the wine of infinity; Before lips of humility gain salvation_ ",' Max murmurs.

'And we _are_ north of where we were when Scrydan told us the message.'

'Just not as north as Ely.'

We look around in amazement. 'Maybe this church _is_ where Scrydan hid the Calix Puritatis. Is there definitely nothing inside?'

'Only pigeon poop. Certainly no chalice.'

'Come, we'd better go,' I say, heading down the driveway.

'Where? Jules's?'

'No. Home. Jules can wait until later. There's something else we have to do.'

* * *

Copyright © H.R. Aidan, 2017


	13. Hack and Seek

**13 – HACK AND SEEK**

* * *

I get home and find Dad in his study talking to someone. At first I think there's someone in the room with him but then I recognise the tinny sound of the speaker phone.

'I'm doing everything I can to get to the bottom of this, Mr Preston,' Dad says, and I can hear the strain in his voice. 'But it's going to take time. We're not talking about a stolen painting any more. We're talking about you being sold a _fake_ painting. _That_ is where the real crime has been committed.'

I stop to untie my dirty shoes by the door and listen in.

'Okay, so why aren't you tracking down the guy who sold me the fake?' Mr Preston's patience doesn't sound any less strained than Dad's. 'I've given you all his information –'

'That is where we hit a problem,' Dad interrupts him. 'Sam Keyes, the person you bought the painting from, died six years _before_ you bought the painting.'

I stop what I'm doing to listen more intently. That can't be right.

'Are you calling me a liar?' Mr Preston demands. 'Are you saying I made this all up to scam my insurers?'

'No, Mr Preston, not at all.' Through the crack of the open door, I can see Dad biting his lip to control his temper. 'Absolutely not. I'm saying that whoever sold you the painting had stolen Sam Keyes's identity.'

There is silence on the other end as Mr Preston digests this piece of news. I, too, am blind-sided by it.

'So – so – so who are they?' stammers Mr Preston. 'Who sold me the Renoir?'

'I don't know.' Dad's voice is heavy with resignation.

'What do you mean you don't know? What am I paying you for, Drury? Do you think just because I live a comfortable life financially that I'm just there for the likes of you and – and – and that Sam Keyes, or whomever it was, to fleece?'

'No –'

'I didn't get this far by being taken advantage of –'

'Of course not, Mr Preston.'

'Then what are you doing?' he yells. 'You told me you would have this sewn up in no time!'

'That was before I found out your painting was a fake and that it was sold to you by a dead man.' Understandably, Dad sounds more than a little annoyed at being shouted at.

'But now you want more money. Don't think I don't see through you, Drury. I've been had once, I'll not let it happen again! If you can't get my money back then I'll give the case to someone who can and you'll not see a penny!'

'But Mr Preston –'

The call is cut.

Dad sighs and rubs the fatigue from his face. He spots me by the door. 'Oh, hello, Noa.'

I flinch. I hadn't meant to be caught eavesdropping. 'Bad day?' I ask, stepping into the room.

'You could say that.'

Spock trots into the study and greets Dad with his usual enthusiasm. Dad pats him mindlessly. I hate to see Dad looking so _defeated_.

'Don't listen to him, Dad. You're doing a great job.'

Dad summons a wry smile. 'Kind of you to say, but I'm not.'

'What was that I heard about Sam Keyes?'

'Dead. Died years ago.' Dad looks at the jumbled papers on his desk, all the work he's done on Mr Preston's case, and shakes his head.

'But we knew that. We knew he was dead. Mrs Grosvenor-Hughes said so.'

'Yes, but Sam died _before_ dealing Mr Preston a fake painting. I know you can speak to dead people, Noa, but you're the exception.'

He doesn't even bother laughing at his own joke. He looks around, as if searching for something. By the tremor of his hands, I can guess what it is.

'Maybe I can help –' I say, moving further into the room. Anything to prevent him from going back to his gin bottle. Mr Preston's case certainly won't be solved that way.

'No, Noa,' Dad says with a mirthless laugh. 'Not unless you're an expert on art and identity theft.'

'No, but I could try.'

Dad shakes his head, tries to disguise his amusement, which I find incredibly patronising. 'No, sweetheart. You leave me to it, that's the best way to help me right now.'

'Seriously, just hear me out,' I say. 'When I spoke to Mrs Grosvenor-Hughes, she mentioned–'

'No, Noa!' Dad interrupts me. 'You shouldn't have been speaking to Mrs Grosvenor-Hughes in the first place!'

The switch from patronising humour to anger stops me dead and my breath catches in my throat. Dad hardly ever shouts at me. My feelings turn from shock to hurt to resentment like a rolling wave until it crashes onto the shore in anger.

'No, you're right,' I spit at him. 'I shouldn't have, _you_ should have. And where were you, huh?'

Dad can't meet my eye. 'I – I was ill.' He juts his chin out defensively. 'Not that I need to answer to you.'

'Of course not, you are the adult in this household, after all.' I can't keep the sarcasm from my voice.

'Don't speak to me like that, Noa!'

'Then let me help you!' I cry. 'Why won't you let me help you?'

'Because! Don't you see? What does that say about me if I need help from my sixteen-year-old daughter to accomplish my work – a daughter who spends much of her time talking to ghosts?'

I stare at him in shock then fold my arms across my chest to strengthen my resolve. 'What does my talking to ghosts have anything to do with things?'

'It – it doesn't.' Dad is suddenly nonchalant, avoiding my gaze, rustling papers on his desk, opening drawers. 'I don't know why I said it,' he mumbles.

Anger burns inside me like a fire doused with petrol. Sometimes it takes a conversation like this to know how someone really feels. 'No, you do,' I say. 'You said it because you think I'm nuts, don't you? And you're taking it personally that you can't solve a case without the help of your deranged daughter.'

Dad slams a drawer shut. 'Stop it, Noa! Stop putting words into my mouth. I've got a heap of things on my mind. The business is struggling, I don't even know how to pay next month's mortgage if Mr Preston takes his case elsewhere. I don't need your teenage angst to add to my troubles right now!'

'Teenage angst?' I echo in disbelief. Honestly, do parents understand their children at all? 'You think this is teenage angst? May I remind you _I_ was trying to help _you_ and it was _you_ who went off on one!'

'Fine!' Dad throws his hands in the air, sending papers flying. 'Whatever, Noa! Just leave me alone so I can think! So I can do some work!'

I glare at him for a moment more, then stomp over to the couch and pull out the gin bottle which Spock knocked over the other day from under it. I stomp back to Dad's desk and thump it down. 'Was that what you were looking for?'

Without waiting for an answer, I storm out of the room and slam the door as loud as I possibly can.

* * *

In my bedroom, I throw myself down on my bed and stuff my face into my pillow. Spock whines and scrapes a paw against my jeans.

Great. Dad thinks I'm a nutcase, just like everyone else. He thinks I know nothing just because I'm sixteen. He's more out of touch with reality than I am.

Fine. I decide that is the last time I try to help him. Look where it's got me so far. If his precious ego can't accept I might be more than a ghost-talking maniacal teenager then he can do it all himself. From now on, he can find out about Arts of the Ancient and Grant's third party authentication of fraudulent art on his own, with his oh-so-superior brain and the oh-so-helpful gin he fogs it with.

* * *

By bedtime the tension between me and Dad hasn't relented. I made myself cheese on toast for dinner and ate in my room. What Dad is doing I don't know and I don't care. He can fix his own meal. He'll probably be having gin for dinner anyway.

I'm still stewing with resentment when the temperature in my room cools and Max steps out of the shadows.

'Good evening, Noa.'

'Hey, Max,' I mumble.

'Why so glum?' he asks, coming to sit down on my bed next to me. 'Everything okay?'

'Dad's just being a douchebag.'

Max looks sympathetic. 'I don't know what that is but I shall assume it's not a compliment.'

'I tried to help him with his case and he flew off on one,' I say, punching my pillow. 'Said he didn't need help from his crazy sixteen-year-old daughter.'

'He said that?' Max is genuinely shocked. 'Goodness, he is being a bit of a mome.'

'A _mome_?'

'Yes, a fool,' explains Max. 'Our butler, Mr Partridge, used to call me a mome all the time. Of course, he just didn't understand teenagers.'

'Nobody understands teenagers, which I find ridiculous since they must have been teenagers themselves once. They must be douchebags if they can't remember what it was like.'

'Or momes,' Max adds helpfully.

'Or momes,' I echo.

'Dunces.' Max's mouth twitches in amusement and I can't help but join in.

'Boneheads,' I say.

'I like that one,' he replies, looking impressed. 'Cretins,' he adds with a dramatic sweep of his arm.

'Lamebrains!'

'Imbeciles!'

'TOOLS!' I shout.

'BUFOONS!'

Despite myself, I laugh and Max winks at me.

'That's better. Don't pay him any attention. You've got plenty else to concentrate on. Have you thought any more about our afternoon in Kings' Hedges?'

'We really need to know what things were like before it all got moved out,' I reply.

'Darling, I can do many things but time travel, I cannot.'

I give him an uncertain look. Isn't this what he's doing now?

'I can't time travel _back_ in history,' he explains.

'What if…'

'What if what?' Max looks at me suspiciously.

'Where's my laptop? I'll show you.'

* * *

I sit cross-legged on my bed, my laptop balanced between my knees. Spock is asleep, resting his head and drooling on my thigh.

Max paces up and down, hands on hips, occasionally dragging his fingers through his curls. 'We shouldn't be doing this, Noa, _really_ shouldn't be doing this.'

'It's not like we're tampering with anything. We just want to see how things were before.'

Max stops at the foot of my bed. 'And do you really want to see? I mean, it won't just be furniture and layout, you know. It's going to have things that might not be very pretty.'

'Max, come on,' I moan. 'I'm visited by dead people all the time. It's not like I haven't seen one before.'

'What if you're caught? Your dad will probably get into trouble. I know you're mad at him right now, but –'

'I have a scrambler. Even if they do figure out they've been hacked, they won't be able to trace it back.'

I type a bit more then wait. The page stills then an error message pops up. I tut and try again.

'What?' Max asks.

'The security is tougher than I thought.' The error message pings again. 'No, it's not working. Blast!'

I try a couple more times but it's hopeless. The Cambridgeshire Police database is tougher to hack than I imagined. I sit, frowning at the screen, wondering how else I can find out the details of Grant's death. Options are slim on the ground.

'We're only doing this to look at Grant's file, aren't we?' Max breaks the silence. His expression is undecided.

'Of course.'

Well –' He hesitates again. 'Well, in that case I might be able to help.'

I look up in surprise. 'How?'

Max comes over and sits next to me. 'I may not be able to do many things in the mortal world but some things I can't _help_ doing, like setting off your smoke alarm or making lights flicker. It's something to do with my electro-magnetic force.' He says this last bit with a smug smile on his face, like it's a favoured pick-up line.

'Yes, Max, you are so terribly magnetic,' I say sarcastically.

'More than you realise, Noa, more than you realise. Let's have a go.'

'But won't you get into trouble with the wisers?'

'Maybe.' A mischievous twinkle lights his eyes. 'But that isn't anything new, is it?'

I give him a wary look. 'Okay, if you're sure. What do we have to do?'

* * *

Five minutes later and a couple of programme crashes later, we're into the police database. My fingers tremble ever so slightly as we scroll through the options. Yes, we're doing this for a good cause, but it is still kinda scary trespassing over such authoritarian ground. And I'm not sure if my scrambler is working now that Max has stepped in. I run a search for Grant Fitzpatrick and a folder pings to the forefront of the screen. Despite myself, I am quite nervous about seeing a dead body – a dead body being _dead_ , that is.

I click on the first photo. It shows Grant lying on the ground on a Persian carpet. It doesn't look that scary really. He's a bit pale, certainly, his lips have a purplish tinge, a black stain trickles from the side of his mouth, and what looks like a rash creeps up from under his collar, but apart from that he looks like he's asleep.

We move wordlessly onto the next photo. This one's tougher to look at. It's a close-up and shows the details of his skin pigmentation. Zoomed in, he does look a bit 'off'. Another image shows his fingernails a yellowy-brown shade and my cheese on toast rolls uncomfortably in my stomach.

The next is a wider shot, taking in the gas fireplace behind him and the mantelpiece on top, swept clean of ornaments and photos that now litter the ground. He must have tried to grab it as he was going down. Above the mantelpiece is a framed watercolour of a desert scene and caravan of camels.

The next photo shows the suicide note. It reads " _For so long I have been searching for something I know I shoulb never found. I have assumed an ibentity I bo not recognise and have lost my true self. I have bone things that cannot de forgiven, yet still I yearn for Forgiveness. This cannot continue._ "

I frown at the multiple misspellings. Grant didn't strike me as someone who would be so careless.

The next photo shows the note laid side by side with some of Grant's work notes.

'It's a very good forgery,' comments Max, 'but terrible grammar.'

'What was the killer thinking when he wrote this note?' I wonder aloud. '" _Searching for something I know I should never found…_ " or " _find_ " I presume it means. The Calix Puritatis?'

'Interesting that it says " _Something I should never find_ " rather than "Something I know I _cannot_ find." It's almost like he's saying he has no right to it,' says Max.

I ponder the note. It is most peculiarly written. What was the killer thinking if not of the Calix Puritatis?

'Maybe the killer just wanted it to sound as vague as possible,' I suggest. 'Maybe he or she wanted the police to think Grant was searching for absolution or the meaning of life or something, and, having failed, he's chosen to commit suicide.'

'Perhaps. Or perhaps it means "something I know I should never found _out_ "? Like he's uncovered a secret, a secret the killer didn't want made public.'

I think of Professor Melnik's affair with Grant's mother. I wonder if that was made public, whether it would harm his reputation. Perhaps he had a family to think of? He wore a wedding band, so presumably he must have one. Or perhaps it was his career? Maybe the university has rules against their professors dating, I don't know.

'Melnik?' I suggest.

'That's what I was thinking,' agrees Max.

'And he and Grant really didn't like each other,' I say, remembering Ross's comment about Professor Melnik's paper rejecting Grant's archaeological theories.

I hesitate. I don't know. Sure, the professor is hiding something, but would Grant have been gullible enough to fall for whatever lies Melnik might have told him? Lies that resulted in him being poisoned by the professor?

'Grant was desperate to find the Calix Puritatis,' I say, establishing my thoughts aloud. 'I think looking around his garden today has proved that if nothing else –' I stop as another idea occurs to me. 'The person Grant's neighbour, Mrs Glover, described – the estate agent…'

'Yes?'

'Do you suppose that could have been Professor Melnik?' I ask excitedly. 'Do you think he's been snooping around Grant's place too?'

'He does show up at the most unusual times,' Max says, his eyes widening as the idea takes root. 'But he's virtually geriatric. I can't believe he could overpower someone like Grant. He must be at least forty years his senior.'

'Grant wasn't killed by force though,' I point out. 'He was _poisoned_.'

I'm filled with a rising excitement as everything begins to slot into place. We may have discovered Grant's killer!

'English isn't his first language either so it would make the bad grammar feasible,' says Max.

Suddenly, the tsunami of excitement inside me subsides as another thought is sparked. 'If Professor Melnik did poison Grant then he would have faked the suicide note too,' I say. 'And Melnik has a very shaky hand. He couldn't have done it.'

We lapse into disappointed silence, the suicide note photo on the screen. It does look a lot like Grant's writing, I have to admit. Could he have written it under duress? I read it again and snag on the second line: " _I have assumed an identity I do not recognise and have lost my true self_."

I think of Dad's case, of the mysterious conman Sam Keyes who sold fake paintings to Mr Preston and Mrs Grosvenor-Hughes. The real Sam Keyes died a long time ago and someone had stolen his identity. I recall Mrs Grosvenor on the phone: " _Silly me, I allowed Sam to recommend them. I ought to have known they were in the con together, but at the time I honestly thought they were being helpful. So awfully charming, you wouldn't think'd harm a fly_."

'It's Grant,' I blurt out.

'What?'

'The dealer. Sam Keyes. See how it's written he's assumed an identity. He stole Sam Keyes's identity!'

'But he would have had to have someone else involved to be the third-party authenticator from Arts of the Ancient.'

'Ross?' I suggest. 'I don't know. He did get rather defensive when I started asking questions about Arts of the Ancient earlier.' I frown, tossing the idea around in my head to see if it seemed plausible. 'Then again, he also said he knew nothing about paintings. I suppose he could be lying.'

'You wouldn't need to know anything if it's all a scam.'

Still, I'm reluctant to suspect Ross again. 'I don't know. I just – my gut tells me Ross is a good sort.'

'Well, that leaves only one other person at Arts of the Ancient: Jules.'

'But she left long before the Preston and Grosvenor-Hughes paintings were sold,' I argue.

'I don't know then,' Max says, throwing his hands up into the air in resignation. 'Anyway, it's kind of redundant, don't you think? We're taking meaning from a suicide note _which we know is fake_.'

I twist my mouth in consideration of the note on the screen. 'It is an awfully good fake.' I sigh. 'What if… I mean, do you think it's possible a suicide can come back? I know we've always believed I can't be visited by them, but maybe we're wrong.'

Max shakes his head adamantly. 'I assure you we're not. Suicides are trapped in Limbus before moving on.'

'Maybe Grant has already moved on? He's been dead six months. How long does it take?'

'I don't like to talk about time since time in the mortal world is perceived differently to the spirit world, but it would take a lot longer than six months.' Max gives me a regretful smile. 'Sorry, I know you want to get to the bottom of this, but Grant Fitzpatrick didn't commit suicide.'

I growl in frustration and click past the note to another wide-view shot of the crime scene. I don't know what to think of Grant anymore. He was such a likeable person when I met him, and hearing stories from Ross about him, I can't believe he's really into anything shady.

I think back to Ross telling me how Grant was so obsessed with the Calix Puritatis that he probably would have foregone all the money a museum would have paid if he had found it and instead kept it on his mantelpiece.

It makes me wonder how long he could have done that before authorities of some sort would have made him hand it over. _That_ Grant Fitzpatrick wouldn't have been a con artist, stealing money from Mr Preston and Mrs Grosvenor-Hughes.

I frown to myself as something flickers in my mind.

'Unless…' I look closer at the photo on my screen, ignoring the body on the carpet, and study the background.

'Unless what?' Max says.

'Unless Grant _did_ write it.'

'Noa,' Max drawls, 'we've just been through this –'

I point at the screen in triumph. Amongst the littered ornaments and photos on the ground is a dull nondescript metal chalice. '" _Before lips of humility gain salvation_." What if Grant _did_ find the Calix Puritatis? At his home, _a converted church_?' I say. 'What if " _Before lips of humility gain salvation_ " doesn't mean drinking from the cup _makes_ a person humble? Maybe you have to be humble to start with? What if the cup _does_ have magical powers that allows the humble drinker free passage to heaven… but if you're not worthy then it becomes a curse instead.'

'Poisoning the drinker,' Max adds.

'Exactly!' I slap my leg, making Spock wake with a startled whuff. 'And we're pretty sure Grant was up to shady deals at Arts of the Ancient, right? Maybe he wasn't considered worthy or "humble" enough.'

Max looks at me in excitement. 'Which would explain why he was still able to visit you. He died at his own hand…'

'But he never meant to commit suicide. " _For so long I have been searching for something I know I should never_ have _found_." He's already got the cup. Maybe his bad spelling and grammar is down to him being in the throes of death.'

'So, why did he visit you with a message for Ross, arguably his best friend?' Max asks.

I think hard for a second then click my fingers at him as it comes to me. 'We've misinterpreted Grant's message. "The glass half full isn't always best." It was a warning, don't you see!'

'So, if Grant found the Calix Puritatis, where is it now?' says Max. 'It certainly wasn't sitting there when I looked in.'

I turn to the crime scene photo again and study the cup on the carpet. 'With whoever cleared his things out, I presume.'

Max and I look at each other.

'Jules,' we say as one.

* * *

Copyright © H.R. Aidan, 2017


	14. Genuine Article

**14 – GENUINE ARTICLE**

* * *

Early the next morning, I pause by Dad's office door on my way out. I didn't sleep well. My dreams were full of conflict: arguing with Dad, with Max, with Ross, with Professor Melnik, being chased by a dark mist I knew was Scrydan. The chill of the black mist prickles the hairs on my neck even now. Despite the Calix Puritatis supposedly being blessed, I can't help but feel it carries a curse. I think of Dad, cursed to raise me by himself and I remember the second part of my dream, in which the mist dissipated to reveal my mother, her long dark hair floating about her shoulders. I recall the smile that would soften her eyes and her low soothing voice, 'Forgive him, Noa. He does not mean all that he says. Remember, you have only each other. You are stronger together.'

I wonder about the dream, wonder if, in fact, it was a dream at all. She never visits me as a spirit, no matter how many times I wish for it, no matter how many times I ask Max. So maybe through dreams is the only other way spirits can penetrate our subconscious.

I'm about to leave when I think of her parting words: ' _You are stronger together_.' I hesitate and look back at the study door. I push it open. It's too early for Dad. The room is empty. Just the clock ticks on the wall. On the corkboard, where Mr Preston's case still dominates, every lead card ends with a dead end or a question mark. He seems so pre-occupied with Mr Preston's painting and the threat of him leaving, that he seems to be overlooking Mrs Grosvenor. He's either forgotten the message I passed on about Arts of the Ancient being the third party authenticator or he's purposefully ignoring it because his precious ego won't allow him to use it since I had something to do with it.

' _You are stronger together_.'

I grimace in frustration. I don't want to help Dad, not after the way he treated me yesterday, but she's right. If Dad and I don't work as a team, where will we end up? I stop myself from fishing out a blank card and filling in what I know. I have to be more subtle than that, make Dad feel he's figured it out himself, otherwise he's bound to baulk at my help.

I rearrange some of the cards so that Mrs Grosvenor's lead has more emphasis. I stand back and wonder if that's enough. Probably not, especially not if he isn't looking for it.

I take out a piece of paper and start writing.

 _Delivering a message to a spirit's sister, Jules Fitzpatrick, about their old business Arts of the Ancient. Back later._

I reread it with a critical eye. Maybe it could be more subtle, but like I mentioned before, I'm not great with riddles, and I want to get going.

Hopefully it'll be enough to jolt Dad's memory. If it doesn't work, I'll give it another shot later.

* * *

I arrive alone outside Jules's house. Max still hasn't appeared which, in itself, isn't that unusual. He's not with me all the time, but he is useful to have around when I'm investigating something.

Jules answers my knock on the sheep-wolf knocker. Like last time, she's dressed in stained jeans and a baggy shirt with her hair held back with a handkerchief. 'Ah! I thought it might be you. Noa, right?'

'Yeah. Hi.'

Jules ushers me into the lounge and I see a pot of coffee percolating on a table. My stomach growls. I really should have eaten something before I left.

'So, you're after those pictures right?' Jules asks, pouring us both a cup.

'If that's okay.' I pause a moment before carrying on, careful with how I choose my words. 'I was also wondering if maybe Grant kept some artefacts for himself rather than selling them to collectors or museums,' I say nonchalantly.

'Sure, he did. I've got a box somewhere of all his bits and pieces,' she says, handing me my coffee.

My heart skips a beat. 'Can I see?'

Jules laughs. 'I like you, Noa. You're too the point. Come with me.'

* * *

She leads me through to the adjoining conservatory-art studio where she has that same church painting on the easel as before. Obviously restoring paintings takes time. She opens a cupboard and pulls out a big removals box then dumps it on the coffee table.

'Help yourself,' she says. 'You can even have a couple of pieces if you want. They're worthless to me.'

My mouth waters at the prospect of finding the Calix Puritatis and Jules none the wiser of its identity. I dig through the box, extracting bits of pottery and arrowheads and Roman coins, but no chalice.

'This I believe would have been an earring,' says Jules taking out a twisted piece of wire. 'Pretty cool, eh?'

I hide my disappointment with a smile. 'Yeah, very.'

I make a big deal of taking photos of the finds on my phone and Jules looks pleased with herself.

'Here, why don't you have this? It's an arrowhead.'

I try to look pleased. Great, I can add it to my burgeoning collection.

'And here, have this too. I think it's a floor tile, probably from some Roman villa or castle.'

She hands me a small clay tile on which there is the beautiful imprint of a fleur-de-lis like the Scout emblem. My heart softens towards Jules. She doesn't have to do any of this for me, yet she's going to such effort to assist with my 'school project'.

'Thanks.'

'And here are those pictures I promised you,' she says, grabbing a paper folder off a shelf. 'You're going to get an A star for your project, I can tell.'

I take the folder, and all too soon, I realise my chance has gone. I've used up my excuse to be here and I'm still no closer to finding that grubby chalice in the photo.

But it had to have gone _somewhere_!

'Have you given stuff to anyone else?' I ask.

Jules shoves the box away and gives me an odd look. 'Only what he said in his will. Of the other stuff, you are the only. You are the _special_ one.'

'You must have had to throw a whole lot out too, right?'

Jules's frown deepens. Who can blame her? I must appear a very odd girl.

'Some,' she says. 'Was there something specific that you were after?'

I shrug and turn away, realising my questioning is making her suspicious. I fiddle with my coffee mug and put it down on a side table. I'm about to mention the Calix Puritatis when I'm stopped short by an empty envelope on the table. It has been used as a scrap paper for writing down a local phone number and postcode cd1 3en.

The first thing that strikes me is that the '3' is facing the wrong way. A nanosecond later I realise the 'cd1' of the postcode should probably read 'c _b_ 1' if it's to match the local Cambridge telephone number. I remember Jules mentioning the last time I visited that she is dyslexic. The next moment my eye snags on the original addressee on the envelope and my stomach does a backflip: S. Keyes, followed by Jules's address here in Trumpington, Cambridge.

* * *

'Well, if there's nothing more then…' Jules gestures to the front door. 'I hate to throw you out, but I'm behind on my work.'

I stand rooted to the spot, trying to take it all in and she laughs awkwardly when I don't make a move to leave. Why does Jules have mail for Sam Keyes? Is it the same Sam Keyes? It would be too much of a coincidence for it not to be.

I stare at Jules as suddenly it makes perfect sense. She's an artist, she must obviously know about paintings. She must have been the third-party authenticator. But then that still didn't explain who was impersonating Sam Keyes. Grant? No, surely Mrs Grosvenor-Hughes would have seen the family resemblance.

'But Sam Keyes…' The words slip out of my mouth before I can stop them.

'What?'

'Nothing.' I shake my head and try to fob her off. 'I was just reading the name on the envelope. We get that a lot at our house, ex-tenants still not rerouting their mail…' I give a nervous laugh and look to see if she's buying it.

Jules narrows her eyes at me and glances at the envelope. 'That says S. Keyes, not Sam.'

I cringe at my error, my breath catching in my throat. 'Lucky guess?'

Jules takes a step towards me and I back away. 'Who are you?' she demands.

'What do you mean? I'm – I'm Noa. You know me. I'm doing a school pro–'

'Cut the crap,' Jules snaps. 'Who are you really? What are you doing here asking all these questions?'

'Nothing.' I back into a chair and nearly fall into it. 'I'm genuinely just looking into your brother's archaeology career. The Calix Puritatis–'

'That has nothing to do with Sam Keyes,' Jules snarls at me. The laidback charm that I've come to expect has been replaced with a cold hard menace in her eyes as she stalks towards me.

'Doesn't it?' I squeak. I look around for an escape route. There's a lounge suite and various bits of furniture between me and the front door. I'd never make it. I try to bluff her. 'Didn't Grant help Sam authenticate art pieces when he still owned Arts of the Ancient?'

Jules stops dead, taken aback. She looks at me suspiciously, like she's not sure whether or not to believe me.

A chill wafts across my neck and I'm relieved to see Max step into my line of sight.

'Noa, I think it's time to go,' he says in a low stern voice.

Can't he see that's what I'm trying to do? 'I came here to find out about the Calix Puritatis, that's all,' I say. 'I think Grant found it…'

'Noa, things are going to kick off in here–' Max warns, but he's cut off by an oblivious Jules.

'Nonsense!' She laughs, a disparaging superior laugh. 'I think I would know if Grant had ever found his _mythical_ cup.' She spits the words like it's the stupidest idea in the world. 'Hell, the whole world would know!'

'He _did_ find it,' I say.

'What? Where? How?' Jules demands.

'Noa! It is time to go!'

I try to give Max a meaningful stare without raising Jules's suspicions any further.

'It wasn't buried at Ely Cathedral like everyone thinks. It was buried at his home in King's Hedges, the renovated church. It's why he paid such a fortune for the place.'

Jules looks amazed. 'How do you know all this? Who _are_ you?'

'The cup was in the photo. On his mantel–'

'NOA!' Max cries. 'Look!'

I look irritably in his direction. I'm trying to get Jules to move out of the way of the conservatory archway. Max stands beside the painting on the easel. He points to the rinse cup beside the paint palette. Simple yet beautifully sculpted in darkened metal, solidified paint now drips from the rim and brushes laze against its sides. _The Calix Puritatis_.

* * *

I gasp and Jules looks there as well.

'This?' Jules snorts.

She picks it up, swilling the brushes in their dirty water around. Her condescension is getting under my skin.

'Yes,' I say, crossing my arms. 'He must have drunk from it but wasn't worthy enough so was cursed instead of blessed.'

Jules laughs hard, but is cut short by a thumping on her front door. 'Who is it?' she calls out.

'Police.' The reply is faint but clear.

Jules stares at me. 'You called the cops on me?'

I stare back, as dumbfounded as she. I manage to shake my head. 'No.'

'Then why are they here?' she says through gritted teeth.

I look at Max. His expression does not bode well. 'Your dad followed the breadcrumbs you left him.'

'Ms Fitzpatrick!' the policeman shouts through the letterbox. 'We'd like a word, please.'

'What about?'

'Why don't you open up and we can talk rather than shouting through the door, eh?'

'Noa? Are you in there?'

I gasp at the sound of Dad's voice. Before I can answer, Jules clamps a paint-stained hand over my mouth. The paint fumes sting my eyes and nostrils and her nails dig into my cheek.

'You lying little wretch,' she says. 'How would they know you're here if you hadn't called them?'

I try to defend myself but can't make myself heard. Jules's grasp is strong and my lips are pressed painfully against my teeth. I shake my head instead. I reach out to Max, but my hand goes through his.

'Leave her alone, you!' Max shouts. He tries to push Jules, but his hands go through her.

Jules is too fired up to notice anything abnormal. 'You're a cunning little thing, aren't you? Coming here with your innocent schoolgirl lies. Well, I'll teach you a lesson.'

She pushes me roughly by the shoulder towards the basin in the corner and grips my T-shirt while tossing the brushes and water out of the Calix Puritatis. She fills it up again and leans close.

'Let's put it to the test, shall we?' she murmurs in my ear. 'See if _you're_ worthy of life, hmm?'

My legs disappear from beneath me but she jerks me upright and pushes the cup towards my lips.

'Don't do it, Noa!' Max exclaims.

I seal my lips shut and the water spills down the side of my face and soaks my shirt.

'Drink it!' Jules shouts.

She pins my nostrils shut and I'm forced to open my mouth to breathe. As I do so, Jules tips the water into my mouth. It tastes disgusting, of paints, but I'm forced to swallow.

I feel the cold liquid seep through my body. I look at Jules in fear. What if this is it? What if all my lies and scheming will be my undoing? What if I'm not worthy?

Jules smiles at me. 'Want another swig?'

Suddenly, the room begins to sway, like a boat on uneasy seas. I see two Juleses as I stagger sideways.

'Noa!' I hear Max's voice from far away. He reaches to grab my hand. I look down. It's not just the cold sensation I usually get when Max touches me. I can feel him, almost like a fellow mortal. Like we're the same. But Max can't be a mortal… so does that mean that I'm dying?

'Am I dying?' I whisper.

'No, no, no, no, no! _No_!' Max says like he's scolding Spock. 'You _are_ worthy.'

I'm far from convinced. I stumble backwards and land on the side table. My heart beats into my throat. I'm vaguely aware of more banging on the door. I pick up the envelope addressed to Sam Keyes and look at the blurry writing. Well, if I'm going to die, I'm going to keep this piece of evidence linking her to identity theft for the police to find on my body.

* * *

I come around moments later to the sound of Jules laughing uproariously.

'You're as bad as Grant, you know that?' she chuckles. 'What is it about the Calix Puritatis that turns everyone into gullible fools?'

'What?' I wipe my lips with the back of my hand, as she comes back into the focus and the room stops spinning.

'That's a paint cup, you stupid girl, not some mythical chalice. Then again, you did think Grant was mixed up in bad things.' Jules's laughter turns into a sneer. 'Don't be so ridiculous! Grant was as straight as they come. Played everything by the rules.'

'Course I knew Grant wasn't involved,' I spit at her. 'I only said that to bluff you.' Well, kind of, but the way she's laughing, I feel I must defend my ego. 'It was you doing shady deals. I know that now. But how? You'd left Arts of the Ancient by then.'

'Oh, I wasn't the authenticator. In fact, you've already blown my cover.' She nods at the envelope crumpled in my hand.

I hesitate. She wasn't the authenticator? But that could only mean she was the art dealer posing as Sam Keyes. My eyes widen as the obvious occurs to me. Was Sam Keyes a _woman_? Could she have been Samantha Keyes?

'You're Sam Keyes. You were the–' I'm about to say dealer, when I glance across at the paintings stacked around the room. I don't know much about paintings but I can recognise certain styles like Monet and van Gogh.

'You weren't just the dealer, you painted the fakes as well, didn't you?'

Jules raps my head with her knuckles. 'Ay! You're starting to catch on now, aren't you? Sad to say really, that I'm good enough to forge priceless masters, but not good enough to sell under my own name.' Her face twists in bitterness. 'My – er – _business partner_ calls me the Golden Chameleon because of my ability to mimic other artists.'

Stunned, I look down again at the envelope and my breath catches in my throat. My relief at not being killed by drinking from the Calix Puritatis is short-lived. I look at the backward 'b' and '3'. Grant's suicide note had the same type of errors.

'It was you,' I breathe. 'All along, it was you. You forged his suicide note. You…'

Jules puts up her hands in mock surrender. 'Looks like you got me.'

'She did it?' says Max in disgust.

More banging comes from the front door, but we all ignore it.

'You killed him? You poisoned him?' I say.

Jules strolls over to the tubes of paint littering the table beside the easel and throws one to me to catch. 'Cadmium isn't just found in batteries,' she says. 'It's actually banned in paints, but it's what all the great masters used. How could I do a convincing forgery without the proper materials?'

I roll the tube between my fingers, imagining the struggle between the twins, of Jules forcing the paint down Grant's throat like she'd forced the water down mine. 'But why? He was your brother, your _twin_ brother.'

'More in name than anything else,' Jules says with a shrug. 'He had no sense of loyalty. He disowned our mother when he found out about her and Ted. Her one chance of happiness and he was too selfish to allow it. Broke Mother's heart, you know.'

'Professor Melnik? Tadeusz Melnik?'

'I knew it,' says Max. 'I just knew he was a bad egg.'

Jules smiles. 'Very good. You know more than you let on. Ted's not a bad guy. He knows which side his bread's buttered on. Not that Grant could see that. Then when Grant found out we were using Arts of the Ancient as a cover for our art dealing business, he threatened to turn me in.' Jules scoffs in disbelief at such a betrayal. 'Well, I couldn't allow that, could I?'

'So you killed him?'

'Hmm, I prefer to think he killed himself. I allowed him to think he'd found the Calix Puritatis. I laced it with cadmium and let him do what I knew he would. Of course, he didn't need any persuasion. I told him it was his fault Mother had died, made him believe he would go to hell for his sins. And he did the rest. Drank from the cup I'd planted in his excavation site of a garden like a baby with its bottle. It allowed me enough time to construct a solid alibi then hey presto! Mission accomplished.'

I can't believe anyone could be so sick and twisted to do such a thing to one's own brother, her _twin_. 'You won't get away with this,' I tell her.

Jules's eyes flash with mischief. 'Wanna bet?'

'The police are outside, waiting to arrest you.'

'They'd better hurry up about it,' mutters Max.

'They haven't got anything on me. Trust me, I know how to cover my tracks.'

She whips the envelope out of my hand before I can react and sets fire to it with a lighter from her pocket.

'No!' I make a grab for it and she pushes me away.

'I can see you thinking "Well, _I'm_ still around. I can tell the police what bad _bad_ Jules has done", right?'

She flings the flaming envelope towards me and I scrabble it off my shirt before the fabric catches fire. She grabs my wrist and yanks me towards the cupboard where she takes out a roll of duct tape.

'I can assure you that is _not_ going to happen,' she hisses in my ear.

I try to fight her off, but she's too strong and in seconds my wrists are bound tight. I try to kick her instead and soon my ankles are shackled too.

She walks over to her paint pallet and picks up a tiny plastic bag of bright orange powder. She wiggles it at me, eyebrows jumping in feigned excitement, and I know it's cadmium. She's going to kill me the same way she did Grant.

'Noa, run!' Max yells.

I try to stand, but immediately fall down. Jules steps over to me and hauls me to my feet, making me cry out in pain.

The banging on the door intensifies. 'Fitzpatrick, open this door _now_!'

Jules is so much stronger than me, but I'm smaller and I try to wriggle free.

'You're not going to get away with it,' I tell her through gritted teeth. 'Even if you do kill me, the police are right outside.'

Jules laughs. 'Noa, if I was going to kill you now, I would have done so already. No. You're my insurance. _You're_ going to get _me_ out of here.'

She grabs me around the waist and hauls me to the conservatory doors. I kick out but the glass is too thick.

Max swipes the air, trying to punch Jules but has little effect.

Jules is momentarily side-tracked as she tries to unlock the doors and I look around desperately for some sort of weapon. There is nothing to hand, then I remember the 'gift' Jules gave me. I squirm to reach inside my pocket and pull out an arrowhead. I hide it in my fingers and wait for the opportune moment.

Jules unlocks the door and pulls me forward by my upper arm, nearly dislocating my shoulder. I take my chance and stab her cheek with the arrowhead.

She yells in pain and her hand flies to her bleeding face. 'You little –'

My teeth rattle as she hits me across the side of my head. I hear a roar from behind me and see Max looking angrier than I've ever seen him. He grasps the church painting off the easel and brings it crashing down on Jules's head. Jules falls to the ground, taking me down with her.

Jules looks terrified. Max and I look at each other in surprise. I don't think either of us expected him to actually pull that off.

'Wh-what – who was that?' Jules stammers, darting fearful looks around.

As she speaks, a might crash sounds and the front door is rammed open. Police appear, batons raised. Jules grabs me and we back away from the authorities towards the conservatory's glass doors. She grapples with the bag of cadmium, spilling half of it, holds it close to my face.

'Don't come any closer!' Jules shouts. 'This stuff is lethal.'

I strain away from it, trying not to breathe. But my adrenaline is pumping so hard I'm out of breath in seconds.

The three police officers fall back.

I try to wriggle free but Jules's grip is too tight. Max repeatedly tries to smack the cadmium out of her hand, but I can see he is fading. The effort of moving the painting has sapped his energy.

'Put it down, Ms Fitzpatrick,' says one of the policemen. 'The game's up.'

'Why, I'm only getting warmed up,' says Jules, twiddling the cadmium packet at them.

I see the doubt on the policemen's faces, willing them not to approach, not to anger Jules any more than she is already.

'Noa, I think it's time we went on a little trip, don't you?' says Jules.

* * *

Copyright © H.R. Aidan, 2017


	15. The Calix Puritatis

**15 – THE CALIX PURITATIS**

* * *

Jules's fingers shake as she opens up the bag of cadmium and pulls me closer. Instinctively, I try to pull away. Jules twists her hold on me, making me wince in pain, and slowly, we back away from the officers.

'Let the girl go. She hasn't done any harm,' shouts one of the policemen. 'We know everything already.'

Jules fumbles as she realises she must either let go of me or the cadmium to open the conservatory door, but suddenly she jerks to the side – a sudden impact. For a moment, I think it's Max again. I twist around and see Dad wrestling her to the ground. He's come through the conservatory doors from the garden.

'Dad!'

Jules is no match for him. I'm pushed out of her grasp and, hands and feet still tightly bound, I seal-flop away from her. Soon Dad has her wrists pinned above her head.

'Useless piece of scum,' he mutters. 'Nobody treats my Noa like that and gets away with it.' He turns to look at me, out of breath from the struggle. 'Noa, are you okay?'

Before I can answer, I catch sight of Jules's venomous look.

'Dad, look out!'

With an enraged shriek, Jules twists one hand free and flicks the open bag of cadmium powder at Dad's face. I watch as if in slow motion as the mustard orange powder bursts into the atmosphere. Dad gasps in surprise – surely the worst thing he can do, then all of a sudden I see a flash of white and feel a gust of cold air as Max hurls himself between Dad and the cadmium. The powder swirls, like it's caught in a wingtip vortex. Dad instinctively ducks his head and rolls away.

Jules isn't so lucky. In her rage, she's thrown it at Dad, not thinking it would eventually settle on her beneath him. She splutters and her eyes water as the orange powder sprinkles on her face.

In seconds, the police have pushed Dad and me to the side.

'Are you okay?' I ask. 'Did you breathe any of it in?'

'I'll be okay. It wasn't a lot,' Dad replies, cutting through my bindings. 'I think a draught from outside must have blown most of it away from me.'

I look over at Max, dusting down his sleeves, and wink my appreciation.

'Don't mention it,' he says with a small nod.

We watch as Jules is hefted to her feet and her face wiped free of the powder. With a sob she's led away in handcuffs. Free at last of my restraints, I wrap my arms around Dad.

'You came,' I mumble into his shoulder.

Dad hugs me tight. 'Took me long enough, didn't it?' he says sheepishly. 'Seems I couldn't see what was right in front of my nose.' He holds my shoulders gently and looks me straight in the eyes. 'I must apologise, Noa. You tried to help, you already knew, but I –'

'I didn't know at all,' I interrupt him. 'In fact, I knew very little. If I had any idea Jules killed Grant I would never have come here.'

'Well, I only figured that out by accident, to tell the truth. All I was doing was following up Mrs Grosvenor-Hughes's case and I came across Arts of the Ancient. Hopefully now Jules Fitzpatrick will tell us who she was in cahoots with. Mr Preston could only describe him as a middle-aged man with a posh accent and a shaky hand.'

I bite back a smile. 'You might want to investigate Jules's unofficial stepfather, Professor Tadeusz Melnik.'

Dad nods. 'That's what I'm thinking.'

The masked officials usher us back and I smile in satisfaction at having most of my questions answered.

'I'm glad that's sewn up, but the mystery of the Calix Puritatis remains unsolved. What we thought was the chalice is actually just a fake that Jules planted in order to kill Grant.'

'Excuse me,' one of the masked officials says, 'Could you move right away, please?'

'They've still got the dig going on at the cathedral, right?' Dad asks as we step out of the conservatory.

'Things would be a lot easier if we could only find the Scrolls of Scrydan, would they not?' Max says from behind us, where the officials have failed to spot his presence.

There's something odd in his tone, and I turn to look at him. He's standing proudly beside the church painting that he broke over Jules's head. I give him a puzzled look and he points to the painting.

'Come take a look,' he says.

I scramble over, receiving dark looks from the masks.

'Noa, what's wrong?' Dad says.

I pick up the broken painting and hold it together to see what Max is getting at. I'm confused. It's an old painting of a church.

'Look on the back,' he whispers helpfully.

I turn it over, and between the torn layers of tightly-packed backing paper and board, I see some faded writing. Fingers shaking with a fresh surge of adrenalin, I tear more backing off, trying to be as careful as I can in my haste to see everything.

' _Polaris viam ad divinationem circumvertit, Et hominis spiritum transcendit. Tu sorbeas vinum infinitatis, Priusquam acquirant salute labra humilitatis_ ,' I read slowly.

'What?' Dad looks at me like I'm mad – nothing new really, but this time I smile.

'It's Scrydan's message,' I explain. I look at Max and he gives a triumphant mini fist-pump.

'This is the Scrolls of Scrydan, isn't it?' he says.

'Yeah, but…' I hesitate and thumb the ripped backing of the broken painting. 'It's not a scroll. Maybe it was before, I don't know.' I look at Dad's confused expression and explain further. 'The Scrolls of Scrydan were meant to lead the way to the Calix–'

I stop myself as something occurs to me. I flip the painting over and smile.

* * *

Crossing Cherry Hill Park towards Ross's dig site, I'm almost as eager as Spock to get over there. Max walks beside me and Dad is somewhere up top waiting in the car. I let Spock go and he's off like a bullet to greet Ross.

Max stops and I pause in my stride, but he gestures me forward. 'You go on. You don't need me to tell her. Good job, Noa.'

'Thanks. Good job, Max.'

'Hey, what are friends for?'

Sometimes, I really want to slap Max, or shake him, and then there are times – like now – when I just want to hug him. I think of earlier when, in my panic, I thought I _had_ felt his touch. For now I'll believe I did.

'Max, if I ever forget to tell you, I'm really glad you're here.'

He fobs me off with a wave of his hand, but I can see he's pleased.

Ross looks up from his trench as Spock barks and shields his eyes from the setting sun. 'Well, hey there!' he calls. 'Good to see you back, Noa.'

He's climbed out of the trench by the time I reach him and I survey all his assistants still chipping away around us as dusk settles. My heart leadens with a pang of remorse at their hard work.

'Ross, can I talk to you a minute please?' I ask. 'In private?'

Ross's smile wavers and he climbs out of the trench. 'Sure. What's up?'

I take the broken church painting out of my rucksack to show to him. He looks at the fractured artwork then at me, a puzzled frown knitting his dusty forehead.

'It's the Scrolls of Scrydan,' I explain.

'What?' He's completely befuddled and almost falls back into the trench. 'How? You're kidding.'

'Nope. Look here.' I show him Scrydan's message on the back and he gasps.

'So, that means…' His voice trails away and he flips the painting over to look at the image on the front. His expression turns from bewilderment to excitement, to disappointment, much like mine had, only I know it's a thousand times more acute for Ross.

'I'm sorry,' I say gently.

Ross looks lost. 'But…'

'This _is_ the Scrolls of Scrydan. Grant found it while excavating at his church-home thingy. Jules –' I stop myself from telling him Jules killed her own brother, his best friend. That's a story for another time. 'Jules took it when she was clearing out Grant's things. He didn't realise what it was.'

'But the Scrolls of Scrydan are meant to be directions to where the Calix Puritatis is,' Ross argues.

I turn to face the Cathedral rising above the dig site. I hold the fractured halves of the painting up against it. 'It does, but not in the way we all thought. The painting is of the monastery that was here before the cathedral. It would have been all that Scrydan knew of back then. Building the Cathedral had only just begun in his time.'

Ross looks at me, dumbfounded. 'The monastery – how…'

I point at the corner of the painting. 'Don't you recognise those two oak trees there in the picture? They're those one over there.' I point to the paddock full of bullocks below the cathedral.

Ross's mouth falls open. 'The _Cathedral_ is the Calix Puritatis?'

I nod. 'I think so.' I smile ruefully at him. 'There is no cup. The mythical chalice never existed. " _Thou sup'st the wine of infinity, Before humble lips gain salvation_." He means the only way to get into Heaven is through the House of God – the Cathedral. There are no short cuts.'

Ross looks at the cathedral, then around at the dig site and sighs. 'All of this is for nothing then. No one will ever fund me for more digs now.'

I can't suppress the smile that twitches at my mouth. 'Well, that's one thing I might be able to help with. My dad was investigating some art fraud for a client, Mr Preston, and now he's solved the case and Mr Preston's insurance has paid out, he wants to invest in more… but he doesn't trust paintings anymore.' I can barely contain my grin, 'So, I suggested he got into archaeology, and he was all for it.' I laugh at Ross's bewildered expression. 'He said it was much more exciting than having a boring old painting in the vault.'

Finally, Ross cracks a smile. 'He couldn't be more right,' he replies and envelopes me in a big dusty bear hug.

* * *

Driving home with Dad, I can sense a seriousness in his mood and I look at him in expectation. He darts a look my way, swallows hard.

'Noa, I want to apologise. I haven't been a good father to you lately.'

Since our earlier drama at Jules's house, last night's argument has gone somewhat unmentioned, but I realise it must be faced. I think of Mum's words to me in my dream.

'It's okay,' I say. I mean it too. After today, I don't want to fight with Dad any more, not over petty grievances. 'I understand.'

'No. No, it's not okay,' Dad responds, banging his palm against the steering wheel. 'Your mother would be ashamed of the way I've behaved.'

'She understands too.'

'How do you know?' The desperation in his expression is heart-breaking.

'She told me. I know you only get like this because of how much you miss her, how much you love her.'

Dad doesn't contradict me. 'Sometimes, I don't know what to do with myself, I want her back so desperately.'

'She's around. I don't always see her, but I know she's there. You just have to speak to her and she'll hear.'

Dad looks across at me, a grateful smile on his face. 'What would I do without you, eh?'

'We're stronger together,' I echo my mother's words and he nods.

'Let's not forget that.' Dad pats my leg in solidarity. 'So, what would you like to do now? We can go grab a burger or something? My treat.'

I suck my cheeks in deliberation. I am actually quite hungry, but even so… 'You know what I'd really like to do?' I say. 'I want to go visit Professor Melnik in jail and show him the Scrolls of Scrydan.'

Dad bellows with laughter, a sound I haven't heard from him in a while. 'Noa, that's nasty.'

I relax back in my seat and smile ahead. 'Maybe. It's also karma.'

* * *

THE END

* * *

Copyright © H.R. Aidan, 2017

* * *

 **AUTHOR'S NOTE: So that's it folks! At least for another Messenger book. Please do leave a review and let me know what you think… like Noa says, karma ;)**

 **If you've been good enough to read both Calix Puritatis and Girl Missing I'd really like your opinion on which style of mystery you preferred – the murder-thriller style of _Girl Missing_ or the legends and history of _Calix Puritatis_.**

 **One last thing, don't forget to follow my author profile as I'm already working on a third Messenger book and it's going to be a cracker! I wouldn't want you to miss out!**

 **Thanks for reading.** _ **H.R. Aidan**_


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